


Breath of Life

by zoemech



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Violence, Falling In Love, Healing, High Fantasy, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mythology - Freeform, One-Sided Lance/Lotor (Voltron), Pirate Keith (Voltron), Pirates, Romance, Siren Lance (Voltron), Slow Burn, all characters will be introduced eventually, bits of magic that will be explained, broganes, heed the rating, merfolk, nsfw stuff, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2019-07-28 01:04:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16230986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoemech/pseuds/zoemech
Summary: Lance is trapped. For two years he's been in servitude of a man with cruel intentions, stuck with legs in place of his tail and tasked to spy on customers that lay in his bed. But when someone new arrives at the tavern, his torturous circumstances take a quick, dangerous turn. On the run with a man who he isn't entirely sure he can trust, he is chased by a crazed monster and a royal fleet, only wanting one thing: to go home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm not sure if I should rate this as explicit? Idk. It might change but for now it'll be M. Just keep that in mind. There are dark themes / suggestions, etc. throughout this story but nothing that will be detailed other than violence (like fighting, death, etc.)
> 
> That being said, I hope you enjoy this first chapter!
> 
> (ALSO, title is from [Breath of Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r0EVEXX9kpk) by Florence + the Machine. I decided it's pretty much the driving theme song of this story.) ((plus I love her))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist for this story (that is always being updated): [Breath of Life](https://open.spotify.com/user/a2j50wzh7lonlqxswc5ogd3hd/playlist/2md75Ii6GlZZlYP8Hh9By5?si=zB2fyXLXQNaRv6tQGEZrjA)

 

 

“The sea, the sea, the sea. It rolled and rolled and called to me. Come in, it said, come in.”    
_  
―  Sharon Creech  
  
_

* * *

 

 

 

Lance misses the sea.   
  
He can hear it now, through the ruckus of the coastal city. Beneath the roll of carriages and the huffing horses, against the voices and drunkards and clashing of sword upon sword; it is a raging heart. Focusing on the swell of the waves helps him through times like this.  
  
The woman beneath him shakes and moans, a grating sound from too much tobacco and swallowed brine. The crashing froth resounds in his mind, washing over him and rocking beneath the docks in time with his thrusts. She grabs at his face and he bares his teeth, the sharp edges filed like that of a shark. Something akin to fear and obsessive intrigue flashes in her eyes, dark makeup staining the length of her cheeks. Lance pulls his face away and brings her to a finish, waiting until she’s sated before moving to lay back on the bed. Expensive and covered in light beige sheets, the expanse of the mattress extends well into the middle of his room.   
  
“Ya’ did great, darlin.” The woman sighs and stretches, “Like always.”  
  
Lance grunts and watches her throw a sack of gold onto the bed, her long brown hair a clumpy mess on her back. She dresses quickly, knowing that her time is up and she can’t linger unless she wants an overcharge.   
  
“Bess.” Lance says.   
  
She sighs and straps a belt around her waist, knowing what he wants without him having to ask.   
  
“Heard the Royal Fleet was takin’ over the island of Cratonia up near Serpent’s Point. They confiscated the riches from Ole’ Fang before hangin’ him up, spoutin' shit about treachery and treason. That’s all I know.”   
  
Then she’s gone.   
  
The moment the door swings shut, Lance rushes to the basin in the corner and wipes himself clean. His skin is smooth and brown but just beneath the flesh there is a layer of scattered scales that wants nothing more than to shine free. He runs his fingers over the subtle blue inside of his wrist, breathing deep and slow, having long since learned how to remain calm.   
  
It’s been two entire years, for Goddess sake. If he can’t handle this situation by now, he knows he’d probably be dead.  
   
A soft knock rises in the air and he turns just in time to see Serina poke her head inside, scarlet hair sitting curled atop her shoulders.  
   
“The bitch gone?” She asks, eyes traveling to the bed before resettling on Lance.   
  
He nods and looks back at the ornate mirror, hating what he sees. Serina steps into the room and shuts the door with a soft click, the layers of her dress shifting in a hush of noise. When her arms travel around Lance’s naked waist his muscles loosen just a tad. Just enough for her chin to find his shoulder, a partial comfort.  
  
“One of these days we gotta’ toss her out the window.” Serina waits for Lance’s small smile and she grins wide when it rises, “Ya’ know ya’ want to.”  
  
“I’d rather tear her throat out.”  
  
Serina snickers and rubs her cheek against Lance’s, the act in no way suggestive; simply friendly. In the beginning, neither of them cared for the other. Serina had a knife to his throat and threatened to take all of his earnings and Lance bared his teeth at her chest, promising to rip out her beating heart. But it was only a matter of time before the pair became thick as thieves. It was smarter to watch each other’s backs than it was to fight, something they learned rather quickly. Drunken sailors move like wolves, eager to devour the flesh.   
  
“I’ll tell Sam to ready your bath.” She says.  
  
Lance turns and brushes a strand of red hair behind her ear, always having liked the color. It reminds him of sunrise, of pretty coral and blood in the water.   
  
“Thank you.”   
  
She flicks his nose and pulls away, seeming eager to rip the soiled sheets from the bed. They become a bundle and she hurries them out of the room, door slamming shut behind her.  
   
Lance hears her shout and it brings another smile to his face before he makes his way to a small shelf lining the wall. He picks up a dark bottle of rose oil and sea lily, smelling the perfumes the moment he pops the cork free. They combine into a sultry aroma and he welcomes it, pouring hefty amounts into the bath tub. It’s large and the legs are a dark silver, holding the expanse of it well above the creaky wooden floorboards. When Lance isn’t working the tavern or sleeping, he is here. Soaking. Thinking.   
  
Dreaming.   
  
The door to the room opens with a swoosh and Sam hurries over, sending Lance a timid smile before pouring a scathing hot bucket of water into the tub. It fills a good amount but he still has to run back several more times until it's done, huffing and puffing. Before he leaves he opens his mouth as if he wants to say something. But then he is closing the door and running out, eyes wide against the flush of his cheeks. With a hissing, amused sigh, Lance lowers himself into the tub and lets the water wash over his aching limbs.   
  
Bruises line his hips and legs, several scratches trailing down the length of his spine, all a testament to his work. Because in the end, that’s what it is.   
  
Work. A form of survival.   
  
The oils soak into his skin and he sighs, letting himself slip until his neck is craned toward the ceiling. A single fan spins in rotation, just as creaky as the rest of this place. He watches it turn and turn until his blinks begin to slow. His mind is hazy at dusk but he knows he can’t sleep yet. He quickly dunks his head beneath the water, blue eyes clear and bright. They glow a subtle azure, reflecting off of oil slicks and ripples.   
  
When he rises, he is not alone.   
  
“I expect you’ve spoken to your patron?”  
  
Lance keeps a scowl from his face, watching Lotor firmly lock the door behind him. It’s a confining click, a reminder that he’s as trapped here as the cattle kept in the fields.   
  
“I have.” Lance says before pushing his hair away from his face, the strands dark and damp.   
  
Lotor hums and steps closer, a hand extended in feigned invitation. Taking a moment to scrub at his skin, Lance makes him wait. But it’s inevitable and he knows he can’t just sit here in silence all night. Still, he refuses Lotor’s hand and rises by himself, water dripping and sliding as he steps out of the tub. He picks up a thin slip of a robe and wanders to his vanity, busying himself by sifting through a plate of jewelry.   
  
“So?” Lotor asks, the bed squeaking beneath his weight when he sits.   
  
Lance looks up at him in the reflection of the mirror, studying the way his shirt is already unbuttoned. With a sigh, Lance sticks two pretty jewels in his ears, the colors a deep, dark red.   
  
“Old Fang has been executed as a pirate.” Lance finally says, keeping an eye on the way Lotor's face twitches.   
  
Once again, he’s gotten exactly what he wanted.   
  
“The Royal Fleet took the island.”  
  
Lotor smiles and Lance looks away, eyes shifting to his own reflection. He likes the way the earrings glint in the light through the window, the fractures changing from scarlet to ruby with a minuscule turn of his head.   
  
“Come here, love.” Lotor says, voice having lowered an octave.   
  
It makes Lance want to retch. He calms himself and stands all at once, silky robe shifting against his thighs. When he’s close enough, Lotor reaches up and grabs hold of the golden band around his throat before giving a sharp tug. To stop from falling, Lance hurries to straddle his hips, teeth bared in a threat.   
  
Lotor just laughs.   
  
“Do you want anything else?” Lance asks, already knowing the answer.   
  
He can feel it in the man’s pants.   
  
“Is that all the information you can give me?” Lotor asks.  
  
Lance pushes at his chest to gain some distance but it does little good. He’s simply brought closer, the fingers on his hips tightening.   
  
“Yesterday, my customer Clint spoke of new trades in the East. Of ink and spice-”  
  
“Not of my concern.” Lotor interrupts, eyes falling on Lance’s lips. “Is that it?”  
  
Giving no answer, Lance prepares himself for what is to come. When their lips touch, there is no spark. Other than the anger slashing at his veins, there is _nothing_. He wonders if he could one day gather the courage to tear into Lotor's face, rip at his cheeks and slice at his throat even if it gains nothing but his own death-  
  
The door slams open and they both jump, though the emotions that follow differ completely. Lance gets to his feet and meets Serina’s eye with gratitude, thanking her with no need for words. She glances to Lotor and nods her head in respect, though her eyes slide to the dagger on his hip.   
  
“What is it?” He snaps.   
  
“Trouble.” She says, one hand holding a ring of keys while the other is draped in fresh bedding. “By the water. Sailor’s fighting over import-”  
  
“Yes, alright.” He stands in a flash, hands pushing at his hair to settle it behind his back. He looks to Lance and lets a few fingers brush the golden band around his neck, "Good work, love.”  
  
He pushes past Serina with little care to her stumble, his boots pounding on the stairs. She waits, eyes following him across the tavern and into the street.   
  
“Are you okay?” She asks when he's gone, eyeing Lance’s closed fists.   
  
“Fine.” He nods, “Thank you. Again.”  
  
She smiles and walks forward to place the sheets on the bed, careful to avoid touching him. When he’s this angry, so livid he could scream, it’s harder to control his temper.   
  
“I’d do anything for you, Lance.” She spreads his sheets and he quickly moves to help, “You know that.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
They work in silence for a moment, neither commenting on the state in which she found him. It’s not rare for Lotor to show up on nights he isn’t supposed to but it _is_ rare when Lance is saved from laying with him.   
  
“Full house tonight?” He asks, watching Serina straighten a mug of water on his bedside table.  
  
She nods and places her hands on her hips, the pretty blue of her dress pressed tight against her breasts. “Are you okay to-”  
  
“Like I said before, I’m fine.” Lance walks to his small closet and pulls on a pair of tight trousers, the color of his shirt matching his earrings perfectly.   
  
He’s long since learned that the art of seduction is mostly about color. If you attract the eye, the rest comes easy. He laces up a pair of black boots and brushes a cloth wet with citrus behind his ear. When he’s done he follows Serina outside, ready to take on the night.   
  
The top of the stairs house only four doors, each meant for Lotor’s prized concubines and the customers within. He leans his hands against the rail and sweeps the room, passing over drunken sailors and filthy workmen, his nose scrunching at the thought of them. But Lotor has made sure he knows exactly who to accept payment from and almost all of them are decorated by treasures; jewels and chains and stolen hats. Their professions and dealings are usually that of the sea, full of information he deems valuable.   
  
Pirates blend with ease but the barman watches them closely, one hand kept next to the gun beneath the counter. Though pirates aren't condemned to death on this island they still aren’t trusted, not for a second. Lance eyes them, practically reading them like a book.   
  
Before, he’d seen his fair share of humankind. Fights burst above the tossing waves and screams echoed against the storms, all the way down to the calm seabed. And Lance’s ears would prick and his pulse would race and he would soar through the water like a bird in the sky. It was freeing, the life he’d lived.   
  
It was the happiest he’d ever been and he had his pod to share that joy with, until all of the ocean felt like his kingdom.   
  
As he’s learned, all kings fall.   
  
A clatter shocks him from his thoughts and he blinks away the mist in his eyes, lashes damp each time they brush his cheeks. He looks from the fallen dishes, glad that a brawl hadn't broken out before he could get back to work. But when he looks to the busy floor, his eyes fall on something entirely new.   
  
The man snaps his gaze away fast, answering a question from someone seated at his table.   
  
And just like that, Lance’s interest is peaked.   
  
He turns and heads down the stairs, hand trailing on the scratched wood until someone threatens to spill beer all over him. He sidesteps a drunkard and saunters through the fray, ignoring the eyes that follow. Whoever steps foot in this tavern has heard of him and everyone wishes to catch a glimpse, probably searching for the fabled scales running along his cheekbones. Other than the sharp points of his teeth, they are usually disappointed.   
  
Bringing a hand to fiddle with his collar, he pulls himself onto the bar and lets his legs swing, thanking the barman for a full glass of ale. People steer clear and the ones that don’t are ignored, their dirty skin heating beneath his cold gaze. Serina laughs somewhere close by and Lance finds comfort in her voice, the tilt a bit ridiculous but as familiar to him as currents in the deep.  
  
“How’s yer night?”   
  
Lance looks over at the barman, not really giving an answer. “How is yours?”  
  
“Eh.” The old man shrugs and slides a drink to the left, liquid sloshing at the sides, “It is what it is.”  
  
He offers to refill the stein but Lance asks for a new one, watching the bubbles gather at the rim. He picks it up and is careful to keep from spilling even a drop, the golden liquid smelling like wheat and apples. Walking with purpose, he finds the man who’d caught his eye from the balcony.   
  
The table he sits at is filled with men and women sporting sea-worn clothes. He studies their hats and spies coin stitched into the fabric, some adorning tattoos and dark silver rings on their ears and faces. By the tone of their voices and the ease in which they sit, as if they have no worry or threat in the world, anyone could tell that they aren’t mere fishermen.   
  
Lance places the drink down and slides it to the man, watching his eyes flick up from the table with barely hidden shock. His face is one of guarded distrust, mouth turned down in a small frown.   
  
“Hello.” Lance smiles, slipping easily into character.   
  
People like innocence. They enjoy speaking to him as if he were a doll, meant to be guarded from the world.   
  
The man doesn’t say a word.  
   
“May I sit?” Lance asks, ignoring the low whistles passed along the table.   
  
At the tilt of the man's head, Lance smiles again and wedges himself between the table and the man’s body. He tenses but he doesn’t push Lance a way, a small sign that he’s interested. Lance leans his head down, smelling sea salt and wind. His eyes flutter before he can stop them, the desperate need to be in the ocean overtaking the rest of his senses. He licks his lips and feels his canines grow sharper but before he can do something erratic, he turns back to the table and chugs his drink.   
  
It burns his throat but he doesn’t care, finding it to be a rather good distraction.  
  
“What do you want?” The man’s voice is gruff but young, rolling in an accent that hints he’s from a distant land.   
  
Lance settles closer, one hand rising to tug at the cord hanging about his neck before the man stops him with a fast tug. He holds Lance's fingers tight in his own, eyes sharp.   
  
“I _said_ , what do you _want?”_  
  
“Let’s start with,” Lance pulls his hand back, a hiss rising in his throat, “your name.”  
  
Someone shouts something but neither of them move, their eyes locked. It’s a bit strange, the way the man studies him. He doesn’t grope and he doesn’t let his gaze fall anywhere else. Something flips in Lance’s stomach, a flutter that turns into a bundle of rare, unexpected nerves.   
  
“How ‘bout you give me yours first?”  
  
The question isn’t really a question. It’s a deal.  
   
Lance leans closer until his cheek is brushing dark, black hair. It tickles his mouth as he takes another whiff, smelling something like spice beneath that of the open ocean.

He smirks and whispers low, voice visibly sending bumps along the man’s skin, “Lance.”  
  
He leans back and glances toward the bar, noticing the way Serina keeps watch. She lets a man slip a hand beneath her skirt but her mouth is downcast, serious and receptive to any warning that Lance needs aid. With a subtle shake of his head, she turns away. But her ears are open and he knows if she needs him too, he’ll be over to slash at the man’s throat in a heartbeat.   
  
When he turns back, the man is still watching him.   
  
“Well?” Lance asks, making sure to keep his voice free of threat. “I gave you my name.”  
  
“So you did.”  
  
Someone snorts a laugh before it turns to a choked cough, creating a ruckus of playful antics.   
  
When Lance makes to leave, already tired of this little game, the man finally says something worthwhile.   
  
“Why do you want to know my name?”  
  
Confused, Lance wonders if the guy is a virgin. If he’s unused to places like this even if his entire being says otherwise.   
  
“I like to know who I’m inviting to my room.” He smirks, “Unless you prefer someone with longer hair-”  
  
“Keith.”   
  
For some reason, Lance had been expecting something different. Something foreign and long to match the accent on his tongue.   
  
“Keith.” Lance repeats, “Pleasure to meet you.”  
  
He runs his tongue along his bottom lip and takes it as a victory when the man finally follows the movement with his eyes.  
  
“Who says I want to follow you anywhere?”   
  
Lance breathes a laugh, “If you didn’t, you’d have told me to fuck off.”  
  
“Go on, Keithy boy!” Someone shouts, slapping a hand to his back. “Go have fun!”  
  
At this, he rolls his eyes and leans forward to take his drink. He chugs before slamming it back down, giving a small nod in agreement. Lance stands and holds out a hand, feeling calluses on Keith’s palm. He supposes they're from hours spent holding fast to ropes, to sword fights and the firing of guns. They sidle through the crowd, most getting out of Lance’s way the moment they see him coming. The stairs creak beneath their feet but the sound is mostly concealed by the tavern noise, shouts rising and glass breaking when some new confrontation starts.   
  
The moment his door shuts, the noise is muffled. It’s a balm to Lance’s ears and he sighs, shoulders dropping along with his faux smile. Lighting a few candles takes no time at all and the flames turn everything to shadow. He turns toward his vanity and begins to unbutton his shirt, wondering which questions he’ll need to ask to appease Lotor’s next visit.   
  
“Stop.”  
  
At the word, he freezes. Lance expects to feel a blade at this spine or a hand around his throat, resting just above the collar, intent on squeezing until he allows the man to do as he wishes. But when nothing happens, he glances back.   
  
Keith stands by the door, cheeks finally showing a burst of rosy color.   
  
“So you are a virgin.”   
  
He balks at Lance, brows furrowing, “What?”  
  
“You’re nervous.” Lance sighs and walks closer until he can place his palms on Keith’s chest. “I can help with that-”  
  
“No.”   
  
The moment he says it, Lance’s hands fall. He takes a step back, unease pooling into his gut. “What is it, then? You followed me up here-”  
  
“I did.” Keith nods, “But I don’t want to pay you for sex.”  
  
“What do you want, then?"   
  
Keith leans against the door and slides until he’s sitting on his ass, suddenly looking very exhausted. “Just need to rest somewhere quiet. Been a long while since I’ve done that.”  
  
Lance blinks, “Oh.”  
  
“I’ll still pay you if you keep your mouth shut about it.”  
  
Somewhere, thunder booms. The rainy seasons are upon them and normally Lance would find an excuse to step outside, to risk the sharp sting of his collar if only to feel the fresh water on his lips.   
  
“Fine.” He walks backward toward his bed, sitting on the clean sheets with relief. “Sleep if that’s what you really want. But you can..it’d be best if you get in the bed, at least. In case someone comes in expecting to see you undressed.”  
  
“I’ll be fine here.”  
  
“Bed.” Lance hisses, Lotor’s face flashing in his mind. _“Now.”_  
  
Keith stares at him, fingers twitching toward the knife on his hip. But with another roll of thunder, he gives in. His steps are slow and he sheds his shirt with a sweeping tug, weapons falling to floor in a clatter. Scars scatter along his abdomen and Lance can’t help but stare at them, wondering how many had been created by an enemy sword. Usually, he’d ask to get an idea of where his customer is from. If they have potential to be a regular, useful for answers to questions he doesn’t really understand.   
  
But as soon as Keith lays down, he is out like a light. Gone is the pirate, uneasy and cautious and dangerous; all that is left is a young man with dark circles beneath his lashes. Lance sits still as stone, completely lost. A knock makes him leap to his feet but when his door doesn’t open to reveal his captor, he lets out a shaky breath. There’s no doubt in his mind that Lotor would do something obtuse if he were to find Lance allowing the man a rest with no prior work.  
  
With a quick pulse, Lance removes his own clothes and picks up the silky robe, quick to pull it over his naked shoulders. He gathers a sheet and lets it settle across Keith’s chest, watching his breath shift the material in subtle rises and falls. He looks down at him, eyes catching on the cord now freed from his shirt. It glints against the candlelight, a small locket resting just above his heart. It’s enticing, bringing Lance closer and closer, that old curiosity of youth returning full force.  
  
Before he can pull the locket free, he gathers himself. It’d be useless to steal from him and even more so when he’d not really get much out of it other than trouble. So, to distract himself from the absolute absurdity of the situation, he heads toward the window. Rain patters on the rooftop and when he pushes the shutters open, a fine mist falls on his face.   
  
He shuts his eyes and breathes it in, the moon peaking through a dark cloud before becoming covered. But he feels it still, drawn to it like an insect to flame. He tilts his head toward the sky and licks at his lips, the ghost of his gills fluttering along his ribs and neck. With the wind, there is the smell of horse shit and tobacco, seared meats and metals forged by fire at the blacksmith’s shop. Heavy drops fall onto the palms and he reaches a hand out, ignoring the burst of pain at his neck. The collar is supposed to look like a necklace but it feels like nothing more than a cuff, closer to the metal on prisoner’s wrists than anything like jewelry.  
  
Time passes slowly, thirty minutes turning to an hour and an hour shifting to three. The tavern fills more and more until people spill into the streets, most stumbling and vomiting. His nose scrunches and he quickly shuts the window, cursing humans and their weak stomachs. In the water, he’d crunched on bone and leave them to rot on the shore, accustomed to hunting like a shark.   
  
Now, he is nothing but a cuddle fish.   
  
“How much would you like?”  
  
The question makes him turn fast in his seat, the cushion a bit flattened from overuse.   
  
“What?”  
  
Keith is sitting up, looking like he regrets falling asleep at all. But Lance can see the way he looks refreshed and guesses that if he hadn’t slept he would have surely passed out by the night’s end.   
  
“Money. How much do you want?”  
  
“I don’t want your money.”  
  
Looking confused, Keith glances at the sheet on his lap.   
  
Lance continues, “I want a story.”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“A tale.” Lance feels a spark of excitement at the thought, “An _adventure_. Preferably one about the ocean.”  
  
“I’m no good at stories-”  
  
“Try.”   
  
Keith sighs and leans back on a pillow, hair wild atop his head. It’s dark as night, as the space between the stars and if they’d fucked, Lance probably wouldn’t be able to stop himself from running his fingers through the tresses. At least once, to ease his curiosity.   
  
“Why would you want a story instead of money?”  
  
Lance gets to his feet and crawls into the bed, watching the way Keith trails his eyes up the length of his bare thigh.   
  
“Three thousand gold.” Lance orders, “Eight hundred silver and your finest jewel. That'll be the payment I want."  
  
“The fuck-”  
  
“Or you can just tell me a story.” Lance tilts his head and leans forward on his palms, until their faces are close enough to feel the others breath.  
   
“Fine.” Keith gulps and turns his head away, “Once upon a time there was a fish. It swam from one end of the ocean to the other, surviving a school of sharks. One day it swam too close to the nets and a bird ate it before the sailors could. The end.”  
  
It’s quiet for a moment, neither of them moving an inch.   
  
Then, Lance is _laughing_. It’s a sharp sound and it shocks him no matter his inability to stop. He's rusty to his own ears, as if he’d kept the sound locked up in a box.   
  
“Are you-” He hiccups and loathes the way his voice shakes, “are you sure you’re a pirate?”  
  
Keith frowns and throws the sheets off, hurrying to pull his weathered shirt over his head. “Who said I was a pirate.”   
  
Lance quiets down until his laughs turn to a low hum, full of contemplation. He refuses to think about his outburst and the way it came out of nowhere, as if pulled from the depths of himself. As if it was released from a place he'd long since left behind.   
  
“I was watching you. The way you watched others, how your hand sat close to your sword but _you_ sat with little care about your surroundings. Pirates are full of contradictions.”  
  
“And you’ve met a lot of pirates?”  
  
“A few.” Lance finally stands until he’s facing Keith, “However, you seem different. Less contradictions, more secrets.”  
  
Keith leans back on his hands before holding Lance’s eye, face morphing from curiosity to something sharp. He’s intelligent and more than dangerous; he’s _capable_. He's filled to the brim with survival.  
  
“Will you be here long?” Lance asks, “In the city?”  
  
“Maybe.” He narrows his eyes, “Why do you care to know?”  
  
With a glance to the door, Lance brings a hand to his neck. A finger touches the gold and traces the edge. “I’m just glad you didn’t make me fuck you.”  
  
Keith’s face falls but Lance thinks nothing of it. Men and women pretend to care all the time, most finding a sense of heroism in their sympathy and pity. Lance simply saunters to the door and holds it open, signalling that their time is up.   
  
When Keith leaves, he doesn’t watch him go.

 

 

_******* _

 

 

 _“My heart is pierced by cupid, I disdain all glittering gold-”_  
  
Lance sings into the dark, voice an echo and a choir all at once. His eyes glow that dim azure, a ghost of what he once was. Beside him, Lotor stares with his own eyes hollow as crystal, framed with snowy lashes. His mouth is red and his teeth are stained, a single pomegranate left devoured. Seeds spill to the floor and his grip is too tight around Lance’s wrist, holding on as if he’d drown without the tether.  
  
_“While up aloft in storm, from me his absence mourn-”_  
  
Like a snake slithering up his leg, Lance feels Lotor's naked thigh and the warmth of his breath. He bares his teeth but Lotor doesn’t notice, not when he’s lost to the sound of Lance’s voice. It’s what led him to Lance in the first place. It’s what started everything.   
  
_“And firmly pray arrive the day, he’s never more to roam-”_  
  
A flash of lightning lights up the room. Lance lets his eyes trail to the body on the floor, the man’s face gaping in shock; in pain and confusion and fear. Blood pools around his carcass, a trickle traveling to the pomegranate where soon it will mix. Where soon, it will stain forever.

 

 

 

_ ******* _

 

 

The tavern in the day is calm, at least in the early morning hours. People have long since passed out or stumbled away, back to their homes or ships or stables. Lance is already awake but his lids droop, skin almost waxen in the sunlight.   
  
“Saw Lotor leaving.” Serina says, stuffing her her mouth full of fruit, a rare gift. “He dropped this basket here before takin’ off. Saw boys head to your room and come out with bloody hands, a lug of something rolled in a carpet-”  
  
“He didn’t hurt me.”  
  
She looks disbelieving, her red hair loose around her shoulders. Lance reaches forward to bury his hand in the soft waves, enjoying the feel. It reminds him of his sister, of their time spent sunning on rocks.   
  
“If he did, I’d drive this through him.” She holds up a fork and Lance smirks, quick to lean forward and steal a berry.   
  
She gripes and swats at him, knowing he hates the taste no matter how much he pretends not to. In an hour she’ll bring him fresh fish, the likes of which he’ll sink his sharp teeth into. When he first told her who, or rather _what_ he was, she had laughed. She thought the golden circlet around his neck was decoration, a proclamation that he belonged to Lotor no matter how many others took comfort in his bed. And she only _truly_ believed him when he ripped into a huge fish, blood coating his skin before he groaned like a man tasting fine, savory steak.   
  
And when he didn’t get sick, or throw up, she’d practically tossed him into her room so he could tell her everything.  
   
_That’s why you get more customers than all of us combined, eh?_ She’d pouted, _They wanna get a look at ya’. See if the stories of Lotor housing a merfolk were true. That’s an unfair advantage, you know._  
  
“Want anything else from the shops while I’m out?” She asks, leaving her plate for Sam to pick at once she’s gone. “Maybe some new oil?”  
  
“Yes.” Lance beams, “Nothing sweet.”  
  
“I know, I know.” She opens her palm and he settles a few silver there, “I’d never do that to ya’.”  
  
She’s aware of his distaste for things like vanilla and banana and caramels.   
  
He rises to kiss her on the cheek and she gives a small salute before braving the bustling city, ignoring rude gestures in her wake. Lance watches her go, more than envious that she’s free to do so. If he could, he’d run and run and run.   
  
Instead, he sighs and returns to his room.

Inside, it is cool. It’s quiet.   
  
He can finally rest. 

 

 

_******* _

 

  
Three nights pass before Keith returns.   
  
By the time Lance sees him walk through the door, he’d been sure the man wouldn’t come back at all. Pirates rarely stay in one city long and if they do, it’s either because they have business or they’re planning something huge. Judging by the way his eyes wander before finding Lance, it seems that it’s neither. He pushes his way through the crowd and doesn’t stop until they’re toe to toe.   
  
“Back so soon?” Lance asks.   
  
Keith just looks at him, an eyebrow raised as if to say: _will you let me up or not?_  
  
So, he does.   
  
Like a fool, Lance wonders if Keith is trying to court him. He’s had his fair share of gifts left by his door, of men and women who don’t understand that he won’t be putting a useless piece of metal around his finger like normal humans do.   
  
But the second Keith falls onto the bed, he knows that it isn’t the case.   
  
The guy is just tired. Probably desperate to sleep in a bed that isn’t threatened by attacks or storms. No matter how unusual it is, Lance is just glad to have an excuse to keep his body to himself for a few hours.   
  
Like before, Keith falls asleep fast. He doesn’t bother removing his shirt so Lance locks the door, hoping it’s enough to keep Lotor out should he show up. He recalls the way he’d struck down the man two nights ago, his arrival full of fury and misunderstanding and vicious possessiveness.   
  
Regardless of Lance’s overall disdain for human beings, and the way he used to tear them limb from limb, the man sleeping on his bed doesn’t seem deserving of a cruel end. At least not in this room. On the sea, the man is put in danger by his own hand. There’s no doubt he’s bloodied his sword and he’ll do so again but here…well, here it is different.   
  
Lance busies himself with a bath, sneaking Sam in and relying on his own partial nakedness to ease any suspicions. Candles reflect in the water and Lance rubs copious amounts of oil on his body, making sure to clean the dirt from his nails. When he’s finished, he opens the window and hums to himself, glancing at Keith only when he lets out a soft, relieved sigh.   
  
He wonders what he’s dreaming about, if there are people in his life that he’s lost and loved and killed with regret in his heart. He wonders if, like himself, Keith dreams of returning to a home that has been stolen from him.   
  
With a sick roll of his stomach, Lance makes his way to the bed and reaches a hand to push at Keith’s shoulder. It’s been long enough and he fears if they stay cooped up much longer it will only bring trouble. When Keith simply grumbles and swats at him, Lance gets close enough to touch their noses together.   
  
Close enough to see the amber in Keith’s eyes, like a fire is lit in the iris.   
  
He jumps and reaches for his sword, the blade cold against Lance’s neck.  
   
“If you want to kill me, at least strike the gold first.”   
  
Keith glances down at the collar, confusion making his face twist. "I don’t wanna kill you.” He mumbles.   
  
“Then get the knife away from my _throat.”_ It comes out a hiss, a warning and a threat.   
  
When it's lowered Lance leans away, stopping himself from taking it and returning the favor. They watch each other until Keith sighs and runs a hand down his face, knowing he has to leave sooner rather than later.   
  
“I’ll just give you some coin.” He says, “I don’t have time for a story-”  
  
“Yet you had time to sleep like a child in my bed.”  
   
Keith glares and tosses a pouch onto the mattress before pulling on his boots, a dark tattoo peaking from the confines of his shirt. It sits on his shoulder, the ink looping in thick swipes.   
  
“I’ve seen your tattoo before.” Lance says before Keith can leave, making the man halt his escape. “On other men and women. What does it mean?”  
  
“You don’t know?”  
  
Lance shakes his head.   
  
“It’s a uh,” Keith glances at his shoulder, where the shirt slips. “it's a star. Meant to guide us home.”  
  
He turns again, hand reaching toward the door.   
  
Lance scowls, “You’re leaving tonight, aren’t you? For good. You're going to catch the waves and disappear with the horizon and never come back to this island.”  
  
This time, he doesn’t move to face Lance. He waits, head tilted in a sign of interest.   
  
“Take me with you.” Lance doesn’t know where the urgency is coming from. He doesn’t understand the timing, the reason he feels compelled to ask.  
  
To try.   
  
“No.”  
  
Lance’s hand shoots forward and he grabs hold of Keith’s wrist, fingers wrapping tight. “Why not?”  
  
A sigh escapes his lips but Keith still doesn’t turn around, “By the looks of it, you can’t just leave-”  
  
“I can try.”   
  
It’s a weak response. It shouldn’t work, it _should_ be disregarded and yet?  
  
Keith shifts until they’re chest to chest, breathing rapid and fast. He whispers like a child sneaking treats. “I can’t protect you. I’m not some merchant.”  
  
“I know that!” Lance hisses, “But you’re...you're the first person to keep your hands to yourself."  
  
What he doesn't admit: _You're the first person to hold my interest._  
  
“So that warrants your trust?”  
  
“No.” Lance slowly lets go of his wrist, “But does it matter? I only need you to get me away from this place. If you do that, I'll repay you however you like.”  
  
Outside, someone shouts and something shatters.   
  
Neither of them move away.   
  
The air is tense enough to slice.   
  
“Can you fight?” Keith eventually asks, sounding as if he already regrets what he’s beginning to agree to.  
  
Nodding, Lance brings a hand to his neck and Keith eyes the stain of blood still freshly scrubbed on the floor. He studies the contents of Lance’s room and the tip of knife hidden beneath a pillow, ready to plunge.   
  
“We leave at dawn.” He opens the door and takes a step out, eyes roaming Lance’s face in search of hesitance. “I’ll be back for you but if you falter or get caught, I leave you behind. If you are killed, I sail on.”  
  
Lance just smiles, teeth sharp in the dark. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

"The curse of memory shall cling to thee:  
Ages may pass away, worlds rise and set-  
But thou shalt not forget."  
  
_-Christina Rossetti_

 

* * *

 

 

 

When he was a guppy, Lance was prone to trouble. It's not that he actively sought it out and it isn't really fair to say he enjoyed finding himself in dangerous situations; it's more like dangerous situations found _him_. More often than not he'd swim to his pod with scratched scales, with a hook in his hand, with a new little dolphin he intended to keep as a friend before the mother found him and tried to take the baby back.  
  
It's a bit ironic that he'd feel the exact same way as he did then, when his mother would grab him by the tail fin and drag him from sunken, decrepit human ships.  
  
"Care to explain?" Serina folds her arms over her chest, voice quiet in the corner of the tavern.  
  
Lance is still shaking from the deal he made with the pirate, his hands quivering no matter how much he tries to quell them. "I don't understand how you managed to hear-"  
  
"You weren't exactly being quiet." She raises a thick red brow, "And your pirate lover kept glancin' back at your door all suspicious-like before he took off into the night. He acted like some kind of sneaky assassin."  
  
Snorting, Lance lets his palms settle on a mug of ale. Even though he'd been caught, it's not as if it's a bad thing. He'd intended to drag Serina behind him anyway, all the way to the docks, all the way home, even.  
  
"I won't leave you here." He says, lowering his voice. "Never."  
  
She studies him, her bottom lip going pale as a tooth bites down on the skin. Contemplation is heavy in her mind, that much Lance can tell. The night is wearing on much too slow and Lance feels more than antsy; he feels like an electric eel is at his heels. He feels like he needs to run before sunrise even comes, that if he stays a moment longer he'll surely die.  
  
"What's most important is helpin' you get out." She reaches forward and places her warm hand atop his, "Even if I can't follow."  
  
"You can." Lance urges, shifting to lace their fingers together. "You have to."  
  
She smiles, "Well, that's up to fate, isn't it? I hardly have a say in how this turns out."  
  
"If I leave and you're still here, you will be hanged. He'll see to it because he knows it'll hurt me in return."  
  
"Then it's best you be long gone before it comes to that."  
  
It's not a suggestion. Serina is watching him in a way that steals his breath, looking so close to his older sister he could see them sit side by side and not tell the difference. Not because they have the same skin or eyes or hair, either. Simply because they both look at him like he's their world, like they'd flood it or burn it down to save him.  
  
"Now," She continues, taking her hand back so she can chug the rest of her drink, "what's your plan?"  
  
He wilts in his seat.  
  
She furrows her brows, "You do have a plan, right?"  
  
"Not quite."  
  
Exasperated, she scoots her chair closer so they can lean their heads together, voices even more concealed. The tavern is loud but they're not so ignorant to believe Lotor doesn't have spies watching their every move. Men and women who keep to the shadows, deadly as a viper and loyal as a pack of wolves. Lance sweeps the room, practiced to look innocent enough. He catches sight of a woman with a down-turned hat and an older man with a coin tossed into the air, over and over and over- eyes set on Lance's table.  
  
Lance laughs at nothing, hoping it looks legitimate. Serina follows suit, eyes catching on what he's already seen.  
  
"So, dawn." She eventually whispers, "That's only a few hours away."  
  
"It is."  
  
"And neither of us have much more than a blade. And your teeth." She drums her fingers on the table before glancing at his mouth.  
  
"They have guns." Lance counters.  
  
"But they won't hurt you. At least not enough to kill."  
  
Lance gulps and his hand trails to his neck, fingers brushing the gold. In the beginning, he'd tried to escape countless times. He'd jump the banister and snap at gripping hands, heart running wild in his chest, beating like the wings of a gull in a hurricane. He'd been hit with the butt of muskets, kicked back into the bed and locked away; kept caged like an animal.  
  
Never had he gotten outside long enough to run free. All he's felt is the sharp, zapping pain of the collar against his tonsils. He'd taste the dark magic seep into his tongue and race along his veins, beginning a slow drip of poison. Turning back to the tavern, not yet prepared to risk actual death, Lotor would be waiting and Lance could do nothing but take his hand.  
  
If he leaves now, he'll be on shared time. If he can't find help to get the damned thing taken off, he'll be dead before the end of the year.  
  
But a flash of the ocean, raging as a living thing, erupts in his mind and he steels his nerves. He takes a deep breath and tastes salt on his lips, knowing without a doubt that he'd rather die on the waves than on land.  
  
He'd rather sink to the sea than burn in a pyre.  
  
"We have to try." He looks to Serina, eyes pleading. "You just need to get your hands on something sharper than that knife."  
  
She glances down, a lone finger tracing the edge strapped to her thigh. It's blunt and cheap, meant more as a threat than anything else.  
  
"Maybe.." She ponders, face sliding into something sly, something that Lance has been drawn to since they'd first met. It reminds him of his pod, of their sneaky, playful nature. "Maybe I can take a lil' trip to the blacksmith. See if his son is home."  
  
Smirking, Lance takes a small gulp of his drink. Knowing her, she could likely get a sword from the boy without taking a single piece of cloth from her skin. "The pirate said he'd be back and if his urgency was anything to go by, I'd say he knows how dangerous it'll be to help us."  
  
"Yeah?" She wipes a bead of sweat from her temple, "Let's just hope this guy isn't all talk and no fight. Once you see him, you make your way to him. Act like he's back for a fun night, bring him to your room-"  
  
"We can't get out of my room."  
  
"You're the only one with a window, Lance."  
  
His eyes flicker to the stairs, mentally picturing the layout of his lodging. He imagines the way he'd grab hold of Keith's hand and shut the door behind them, thrusting them into a semblance of privacy. Inside, none of Lotor's snakes can truly keep watch. They are locked outside, ordered to keep away while he works.  
  
"I have expensive sheets. The kind that can be easily tied and let loose over the windowsill, not a threat to ripping."  
  
She nods, "Then down you go."  
  
A smile twitches at this lips, "Down I go."

 

 

 

 

_******* _

 

 

There comes a time in one's life that they must make their first kill. Lance is all too familiar with the feeling, with the weight of the act sitting heavy on his chest. But after a while, even the kindest among them can be brought to the brink.  
  
When he first killed a human, he was ravaged by anger. Long had he been sated by simple fish and kelp, more than content to keep his teeth free of land dwelling blood. But the night cannons shook the water much too close to their cove, he was the first to race toward the sound.  
  
Fights in the Straight of Medus were common. Treasures would float and sink and bodies would attract predators just as dangerous as the merfolk, all hungry for a hunt. But Lance wasn't there to feast- he was simply following the screams of his brother.  
  
When the huge ships came to view and the surface burned with fire, Lance felt his blood run frigid. His fins had flared and his eyes shifted to slits, teeth elongating until his jaw snapped from the socket. The blood in the water was deep and rich and he soared between fallen humans with little care for whether or not they drowned. He was searching for a single soul, lost to the chaos.  
  
The boy wasn't supposed to be out by himself. He was too young, too innocent and ignorant to the ways of those above the water.   
  
His brother wasn't prepared to fight for his own survival. 

And when Lance saw a spear strike through his chest, the hooked barb pulling him up to a world he could never enter, his rage had set him free. He'd joined his pod in their massacre, blinded by loss and shock and intense, crazed disbelief. Never had he killed a human. Never had he truly wanted to. But that night he learned that it came easy.  
  
Even later, when his own gentle nature overtook him and sent him to guilt, his sister had wrapped her tail around his and soothed him with her voice. 

 _It's us or them._ She'd reminded him,  _And in the end, we must always choose our own._

 

_*****  
  
** _

  
"This won't work."  
  
Lance looks up from his bed, where he's already begun double checking the knotted sheets. They're connected one to the other, creating a makeshift rope.  
  
"It will." He snaps.  
  
Keith glances toward the door, hand holding fast to the hilt of his sword. Walking the sheets to the window, Lance risks a glance outside. Dawn is fast approaching, he can smell it on the air. People are waking, hungry merchants are taking port and further away, resting just outside of the city, Lotor's manor is no doubt already alive with bustling servants.  
  
"Like I said-"  
  
"If I fall behind, you leave me." Lance hisses, "I know what you said."  
  
Keith meets his eye, looking less like a man who'd only wanted to sleep and more like a pirate with blood staining his hands. He has a feral look to him, like the wind was already pushing at his back; like the waves are calling to him too.  
  
"Get on with it, then." He nods toward the window.  
  
Lance peeks outside again, searching both sides of the street for a burst of red. He hadn't been lying when he said he wouldn't leave her behind and even if it means he passes up his only chance to escape, he'll see to it that they stay together.  
  
"Wait."  
  
Keith strides forward, "For _what?"_  
  
"Just wait, you impatient ass!"  
  
They both fall silent but Lance can feel the annoyance wafting off of Keith. He paces, boots loud and obnoxious.   
  
And then, just when he fears Serina had somehow found herself in trouble, a woman peeks up at him from the shadow of a hood. Her dress is covered in soot but on her hip there is a long sheathe, dark leather hiding a blade that is surely newly forged.  
  
Lance grins and turns to push at Keith's shoulder, urging him to help. The sheet is lowered slowly, each inch brushing the wood of the tavern with little snags, splinters pulling at the material. The street is mostly barren but a few yards away a pair of farmers steer horses toward the market, their wagon rattling with bottles of fresh milk. Looking away from them, Lance lets the sheets drop from his fingers a bit faster.  
  
Serina grabs hold the moment she can reach and she pulls it taut, letting him know that it's long enough.  
  
"Tie it to the bed post." Lance orders, ignoring the quick way in which Keith obeys.  
  
He loops the sheets multiple times before pulling them tight, making sure they won't give.  
  
"Go on." Lance nods toward the window, urging Keith to go.  
  
But the pirate shakes his head, "You first."  
  
Lance blinks before another grin lights his face, teeth no doubt sharper from the adrenaline in his blood. "Scared?"  
  
Before Keith can answer, Lance is climbing onto the windowsill. He braces himself for the pain at his neck, knowing it'll feel like molten blades on his skin. But there's no use thinking about it for long. He grabs hold of the sheet and turns, easing a foot down before the other follows suit. His boots are thick enough to keep him safe from splinters but his hands are another story, the flesh ripping a bit when he has to catch his balance.  
  
He looks up when he's halfway and Keith is staring back, mouth set in a grim line.  
  
They both know if Keith is caught, he'll be executed with no trial. He can't be condemned for piracy but he can be hung for false charges; theft of the mayor's property, threats against Lotor, assault-  
  
The moment Lance's boots find the ground, he lets out a shaky breath. Serina wraps her arms around him and he breathes her in, blinking against the stabbing in his neck.  
  
"I'm sorry." She says, as if she were the cause of it.  
  
He feigns a laugh, "I don't even feel it."  
  
A puff of air finds his back when Keith lands, his descent having been much faster. Lance loosens his grip on Serina and glances at the sword on her hip, eyebrows raising in question. She gives a tiny nod, victory blooming by the way she stands a tad taller.  
  
"Let's go." Keith grumbles, "We need to get off of the main streets until we reach the harbor-"  
  
"The harbor, hmm?"  
  
They all freeze but Lance is the first to react, sudden desperation making him pounce. He turns quick as a whip and feels his teeth lengthen, shorter than when he'd been in the water but still too long to be considered human. The man who'd caught them is someone he's seen before, the lines on his face layered with dirt. He'd been keen on touching Lance when he passed his table, fingers pinching hard enough to make Lance jump in pain.  
  
Before he can do anything, Lance is ripping into his throat. He feels a rush of hot blood in his mouth but it doesn't give him pleasure or ease any sort of hunger; he has simply turned into the animal they'd always thought him to be. The man gurgles and convulses when Lance pulls his mouth away, flesh flying into the air. He falls in a heap, blood pooling in the hollow of his throat before it sputters against his lips. Muscle and tendon is exposed, bone quickly stained by the deep red. Lance's hands are shaking again, all of the rage and injustice he's felt for two entire years sweeping into him with brute force.  
  
"C'mon." Serina grabs his hand and tugs, unfazed by the violence.  
  
Lance doesn't look to Keith. He isn't sure the man even knows what Lance is rumored to be but if he hasn't figured it out by now, there's not much else that can be done to portray it.  
  
They take several steps before a large group spills from the tavern, almost all of them sporting the crest of Lotor's leadership on their arm. The band is a deep, dark violet. Lance glares, his jaw popping.  
  
"Get back inside." A woman orders, eyes falling on Lance after spotting the body behind them.  
  
"Like hell." Serina sneers, hand reaching for the blade at her side.  
  
Keith pulls his own, the hilt wrapped in a stained cloth. He steps close to Serina, eyes roaming each face before gauging the guns and swords they sport. People have begun to fill the streets as daylight streams onto the rooftops, their shocked gasps accompanied by shouts of warning to get back inside. But many stay, eager to see bloodshed.  
  
It happens fast, the way the spies move. They surround the three of them and keep shifting, making sure to flee from one spot before harm can be done. Keith huffs a breath and strikes fast, catching a man by the neck. His blade slices clean, straight through the spin.  Chaos quickly erupts, most now aiming to take Keith's head from his shoulders.  
  
Serina tries to hold Lance close to her side but it's pointless. They're split up and Lance is captured fast, a strong pair of arms wrapping tight around his shoulders. He shouts and kicks when he's raised in the air, remembering Keith's warning like a curse.  
  
_If you get caught, I leave you behind._  
  
Bending his neck, Lance snaps at the hand on his chest. It's a miss and he's dragged even further away, legs weak compared to the strength of his teeth.  
  
"You're a brave fucker." The woman grunts, voice gravely and deep.  
  
She's burly and strong, so much so that Lance fears his bones will break if she squeezes any tighter. He brings a foot back and catches her in the knee, listening to a sickening pop before he's dropped. Only getting so far, she reaches out and catches his foot, sending him to the ground with a pained curse.  
  
His neck is on fire. It burns and sears and stings and he is a mess, bloodied and tear-stained against the bright sun.  
  
Serina is trying to get to him, her eyes wide and brown as fresh soil. She's so livid he fears she'll simply get herself killed in the wake of her distress. The woman pulls at Lance's ankle and he claws at the cobblestone, teeth grinding at the bruising grip.  
  
Suddenly, blood sprays against his legs. The woman screams at her severed arm, curses flying before a hand is thrust in Lance's view.  
  
Looking up, he spots Keith shrouded by the sunlight. His hair is a frame around his face but he's not saying a word; simply offering. Lance takes his hand and gets to his feet with a gasping breath.  
  
"Let's go-"  
  
"No!" Lance shouts, eyes wide when he realizes he can no longer see Serina.  
  
"We have to go, now." Keith grabs his arm, "Or you stay behind too."  
  
Something heavy and cold is pressed into Lance's hand and he looks down in shock, noticing that the hilt of the sword is an exact replica of Serina's. Or, rather, it _is_ hers.  
  
"No," Lance gulps and looks around in earnest, ignoring the new group of people coming out of the tavern. They take notice of the fight and join in with little care for the cause, simply wanting the steal what they can and find themselves new, expensive weapons. "No, no, _no._ We have to- she's supposed to be with me-"  
  
_"Lance!"_  
  
Her voice is a lighthouse. It's a single point he's drawn to even if it's more logical to stay away, knowing the danger but finding it trivial compared to what waits ahead.  
  
He can't possibly go on without her.  
  
"Run!" She shouts, stuck behind the wall of the fight. "Go home!"  
  
Reaching forward, it's as if he expects he can find her hand in the distance between them. Keith is already running toward the docks but Lance is frozen. He doesn't hear Keith's frantic shout or see the man arriving in an ornate carriage, his pale face livid as a god scorned.  
  
Lance sees only her, the way her hair brushes against a bloodstained, dirty cheek. The way she smiles, as if to say: _it will be alright._  
  
Opening his mouth, Lance wants to call out to her, to scream the words he'd learned so long ago. Different than his own mermish tongue, that of the human world is as harsh as their customs. Even so, _these_ words had always felt true. Pure.   
  
"I lo-"  
  
A single shot rings out, echoing and piercing and crushing.  
  
Serina's eyes go wide at the hole in her head, blood spraying to mix with what is already staining the ground. Lance shudders, breath catching in his lungs when the light begins to fade from her eyes, mouth going slack seconds before she falls.  
  
Behind her, gun still held tight in a white gloved hand, Lotor stares. His face is now coated in her blood, drips trailing to soak into the collar of his shirt.  
  
"Let's go." Someone says but Lance can't really be sure who it is, his mind hazy as fog in the morning. _"Now."_  
  
A hand wraps around his wrist but he doesn't struggle against it, uncaring even if it were leading him back inside the tavern. The fight has escaped him, left him limp as a doll. His feet stumble when Lotor shouts something, his hired soldiers immediately shifting to obey. They are pushing through the slaughter, heading straight toward him.  
  
Keith hisses a curse and finally drags Lance into an alley, their boots kicking up trash and muck.  
  
To Lance, he doesn't notice. He doesn't see the way people add to the chaos or feel his neck burning with each step he takes.  
  
He's not heading toward the harbor.  
  
He's still with Serina, kneeling in the blood.

 

 

 

**_***_ **

 

 

Waking with tears in the eye can leave anyone disoriented.  
  
Lance groans and blinks away the mist, throat feeling parched and sore. He tastes blood on his gums and smells rank as a pig in a mud stable.  
  
He feels like it, too.  
  
Reaching to the left, he expects to feel his sheets and a head of soft, scarlet hair. It wouldn't be the first time he and Serina found comfort beside each other, their whispers having slowly set them to sleep the night before. He rolls to his side and opens his mouth to say good morning.  
  
But she isn't there.  
  
He feels his chest shatter in her absence.  
  
It comes back to him like the shallows filling up with high tide. His fingers grip the bedding and he wants nothing more than to scream, to thrash and bite into something hard enough to feel his teeth break. In the wake of heartache, he is tempted by self destruction. He digs his nails into his palms, uncaring that he reopens the puncture made by the splinter.  
  
He centers himself, trained at a young age to accept the inevitable hand of death. He lets the emotions roll through him before sobbing into the bed, feeling his head pound and his throat convulse with stabbing pain; he lets mourning take its course until it can be held successfully back.  
  
It won't disappear and he knows it'll haunt him: that _she_ will haunt him. But if he wants to survive, to gather his bearings and see his legs somehow turn back to scale, he has to anchor himself. It's like fracturing a bone so it can grow stronger. He takes the pain and he wraps it tight around his heart, creating a shield.  
  
A weapon.  
  
Wiping at his cheeks, Lance sits up and takes several deep, shaky breaths. Body aching, he looks down at the mess of his shirt. Torn at the shoulder, it slips low on his chest, revealing dark purple bruises and a cut he hadn't realized he'd received. It's not deep but it stings, blood crusted along the slit.  
  
Looking around, he recognizes the layout of a ship with ease. Captain's quarters are usually similar no matter the vessel, if only because the leader of a crew gets a full bed and a large desk. He eyes a coat and candles, wax dripping to the silver plates underneath. Wood creaks when he stands, a bit wobbly on his feet. He trails a hand along the bed before letting his fingers catch on the wall, finding hollows and repaired planks. The air smells like salt and spice and wine, said bottle rolling back and forth on a short table. There's a scattering of clothes all around, some hanging on the back of a chair while others are piled in a corner, obviously needing to be stitched and sewn.  
  
Lance's toes wiggle and he looks down, finally noticing that he's without boots. His brown feet find balance the more he wanders, until he's sure he can handle the rocking of the ship. He isn't sure how he managed to make it on the ship, whether he was carried or he'd dragged himself with the last ounce of his consciousness. Either way it's still unreal, these new surroundings. It all came too fast and at too great a cost, the shock leaving him floating. Like a lone cloud, he drifts in his thoughts, knowing he should find a weapon before he attempts anything else.  
  
For all he knows, he's back on Lotor's ship. With his luck, he's not free at all and simply awaiting hours upon hours of punishment; of pain.  
  
A click behind him makes him spin on his heel, teeth bared in warning.  
  
Keith closes the door, soaked by the rain. It falls in earnest and Lance breathes it in before it's muffled completely.   
  
"So we made it." Lance guesses, voice quiet.   
  
Keith nods, "Barely." He looks around, eyes catching on the huge window behind the desk. Waves roll and crash, cresting tall.  "I'm sure we're being followed-"  
  
"We are."  
  
The ship tilts against the brunt of the wind.  
  
"It's like the sea is welcoming you back." Keith suddenly says, the proclamation completely unexpected. It doesn't seem like something he'd say given his seemingly serious, guarded nature. "The moment we met open water it came alive."  
  
Lance feels his throat close up, "It's just a storm."  
  
Keith looks disbelieving. Cautious.   
  
Glancing down, Lance notices the way his fingers twitch toward his sword.  
  
"What are you?" Keith asks.  
  
The air is tense and quiet against distant shouting and creaking wood. Flames flicker, one catching Lance's attention.  
  
Before he'd been brought to land, he was terrified of fire. It was too bright, too hot and malicious. It brought only torment to his people, the one thing that sent them diving back to the deep. He feels his left side ache in ghostly pain but he doesn't move an inch, not even to bring a hand to it.  
  
He slides his eyes back to Keith, "What do you think I am?"  
  
"You aren't heartless. You cared for that girl." Keith says, gaze trailing from Lance's toes to the top of his head, "But you're cruel enough to tear a man apart without a second thought. You're cold."  
  
"I wasn't always."  
  
A flame goes out, smoke rising in silvery tendrils.  
  
"You're brutal enough to kill but you were still trapped on the island." His eyes settle on the gold around Lance's throat, "You were caged. Forced to work."   
  
Lance waits, wondering where this could be heading.  
  
A lengthy silence stretches between them, long enough for Lance to take a seat at the table. He rests his chin in his palm, eyes hooded in mock compliance. If the man is summing him up to be a simple, tricky whore, he'll play the part. Sharp teeth or not, first appearances stick to the mind.  
  
"You're a demigod. Son of the sea Goddess Vyelis."  
  
At this, Lance lets out a barking laugh. Just like before, he's taken off guard when it erupts, snatched from him before he can hold it back.  
  
It's not a show, this laugh. It's uncomfortably real.  
  
"Sorry," He coughs into his hand and leans back, enjoying the confusion on Keith's face, "but I'm not. Try again."  
  
Suddenly, Keith strides forward. His sword escapes the sheath with a sliding glint of metal, the sharp tip pressing millimeters below the gold of his collar, right in the hollow of his throat.  
  
"What _are you?"_  
  
Lance clenches his jaw, knowing he's in a perilous situation. He could have misjudged the man, overstepped his bounds and tested unsafe waters. Judging by the ease in which Keith moves throughout the room, it isn't hard to guess his title. His power on this vessel. One word and Lance can be killed.  
  
"I'm whatever you want me to be, _captain."  
_  
Keith scowls, fingers flexing on the hilt of his sword. He looks torn, like he isn't sure if he should strike Lance down or offer him a warm glass of wine. The expression on his face makes Lance giddy, obviously turning to his playful nature to deal with the grief in his bones.  
  
Another moment passes before Keith finally takes the sword away, a hand rising to push at his thick hair. It falls back to his head in a clump, not having yet dried from the storm outside.  
  
"Can I trust you?"  
  
Lance tilts his head, "We had a deal. You get me far away from that island, I repay you." He stands and steps closer, until he can smell the wild wind on Keith's skin. "What is it that you want from me?"  
  
It's suggestive. Meant to be a distraction, one that usually works by the time Lance's presses his lips to a jaw or neck or chest.  
  
But Keith is seemingly unfazed, "I want you to tell me the truth."  
  
"Can _I_ trust _you?"_ Lance counters. When the Keith doesn't reply, it is enough for him to sneer, "It seems you've just answered your own question."

 

 

_******* _

 

  
After Keith is gone Lance doesn't bother finding a new shirt to steal.  
  
He straightens his back and rolls his shoulders, feeling muscle clench against the sharp burst of pain at the nape of his neck. It's a feeling he can grow used to, if only he remains distracted; if only he can ignore the thought of dark magic seeping into his blood, poisoning him with every fucking breath. So, in order to keep from slipping into unwelcome solitude or thoughts, he opts to brave the crew.  
  
There is a common unspoken law in piracy. It travels from ship to ship no matter enemy or foe and it is this: _whoever leaves the captain's quarters is under their protection._  
  
His feet find the open deck with timid steps and every eye turns toward him, most hands kept busy with guiding the sails on course. Others stare as if Lance would suddenly overturn the ship on his own, their weathered faces full of distrust and unease.  
  
But Lance doesn't care for their attention. He feels the storm and hears the crashing waves and swears there are voices in the thunder, calling to him, begging him to jump overboard. His neck cranes until the water is falling on his face, washing away grime and dried, thick blood. The wound on his chest stings a bit but it's a minuscule discomfort compared to the energy lapping at his solar plexus.  
  
His mouth parts, tongue sweeping his bottom lip.  
  
When lightning strikes the sky, he opens his eyes and finally moves. He strides through the crew, knowing if a single hand lays on him he'd snap their bones between his jaws. His sole focus is onward, toward the bow. It's like a hand is pulling him there, urging him to see the dark water with his own eyes, to feel the salty splash overtake that of the fresh rain.  
  
The moment he finds the railing, he lets out a sobbing breath. Never did he expect to see his world again. And though he can't enter, though he is bound to a body that can drown and break, he feels it welcome him like an old friend.  
  
_"Hello."_ He whispers in his own tongue, the word a slither between his lips.  
  
A tall cresting wave hits the side of the ship and he gasps at the feel of it, hands bracing tight to keep him from toppling over completely. He isn't sure how long he stays there, rooted to the spot like a palm in the sand. He just knows that it should never end and he will mourn it when it does, the same way he mourns Serina with each drag of his breath.  
  
If she were here, he knows she'd be standing on the rail like a goddess come alive. Her hair would blaze a path for the ship to follow and they'd both find their way home, hand in hand, protecting one another just has they have every hour of every day for the past two years.  
  
But when he looks up toward the dark, stormy clouds, she isn't there. She never will be.  
  
Against the roll of the thunder, he screams. It's a raw sound and he doesn't care if it's heard ripping from his throat. He lets it loose until his voice cracks and his shoulders sag, legs trying desperately to hold him upright. People are at in a constant energized shift behind him, working to keep the ship from capsizing in waves as tall as this. Shouts are carried away by the wind and steps pound on the deck, overtaken by the vibration of deafening thunder.   
  
Lance isn't afraid.  
  
And when he finally turns around, blue eyes pulsing, he sees that Keith isn't either. He's at the helm, turning the pegs and shouting orders against the brunt of the rain.  A genuine, untamed smile rests his lips. It's the first time Lance has seen it and though he knows they'll probably end up trying to kill each other in the future, he can't help but stare.  
  
He can't help but match that smile with one of his own.  
  
Tomorrow, he will worry about where the ship is headed. He'll worry about finding someone to release him from the collar before it kills him and he'll worry over the wound on his chest, no doubt festering. He might die, it's a truth he's already beginning to accept.  
  
But for today, he is wholly, unapologetically  _alive_. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: things slow a bit as a familiar face shows up. How Lance was captured and his backstory will be fleshed out the more the story goes on. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos! I hope you're enjoying this story and i'll see you next update! 
> 
> <3
> 
> btdubbs, i'm on tumblr! Find me at [zoemech](https://zoemech.tumblr.com/) !


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any errors I may have missed.

 

 

"Nothing goes away. Not on its own. You deal with it, or it deals with you."

_-Jonathan Safran Foer_

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dreams are strange things.  
  
To some, they are an ever-long form of escape, a way to deal with the travesties and tribulations of life. Sometimes, this rings true for Lance. Other times, they _destroy_ him. What begins as a fading of consciousness evolves into a constant barrage of noise and sound, of mistakes relived over and over and over. It can be a never ending cycle and it threatens to swamp his lungs with silt, to suffocate him and leave him out to dry. There are flashes of a storm and the calm sunrise after, of silver hair drying in a cove and soft murmurs. Then there are the screams. There is a spear in a chest and scales ripped from muscle, there is a net and the sun, so bright and hot; burning everything, scorching the peace from his life.     
  
Waking from such dreams leaves him with bloodshot eyes. Early morning streams beneath the door and he watches particles float, hundreds of them reflecting and dancing in tiny golden bursts. There's a numbness to him, the likes of which is as unnatural as snow along the coasts.  
  
Lance, like all merfolk, is a creature forged by emotion.  
  
To feel nothing is to be nothing; a wavering apparition, a haunt of who he once was.  
  
Sighing, he slings and arm over his eyes and breathes through his mouth, counting the pattern of his heart in his ears. His skin is damp from light perspiration and his legs are bare, meant to keep him as cool as possible against the thin sheets. He'd tried to sleep on the deck since arriving on the ship but it's turned out to be a pointless venture. Keith would interrupt his attempts each time, giving no explanation for his brisk orders to leave. So, Lance has taken up sleep in said captain's quarters, growing used to the soft downy bed. Where the captain sleeps is none of his concern but he finds himself watching the door more often than not, unsure if the shadows roaming outside are the billowing sails or feet.   
  
Waking with the sun was something he never did when he lived below. His kind are Moonchildren, wanderers beneath the stars. His tail held a shimmer similar to crushed crystal, mixing with a blue so vibrant it could reflect in bio-luminescence. It's not right, the way he's grown used to rising with the burning, orange heat of the day.  
  
He groans and gets to his feet, naked body stretching, fingers spread wide toward the ceiling. Bones crack deep in his back but he still feels sore. Bruises have faded but they aren't gone completely, sitting instead like testaments of his abrupt escape. With a frown he slides on a loose fitted shirt and slacks that bunch at his knees, meant to be tucked within a pair of high leather boots. He hadn't picked the clothes himself but he's still grateful for them, knowing it's better than nothing at all. He's already stared at enough, there's no need for the lingering gazes to turn into anything other than suspicious curiosity.  
  
When he opens the door, a hiss erupts from his throat. The collar on his neck pulses like a slicing blade and he fears it will send him twitching on the ground, that he'll soon have no strength to stop it. The most he can do is close his eyes and let it pass, teeth biting at his gums to keep from screaming, wondering just how quickly the poison will overtake his heart.  
  
_It is made from dark magic._ Lotor had told him once, _If too far from me, it will catch to your skin like dragon fire and you will burn. You will fade away like ash._  
  
Opening his eyes, Lance squares his shoulders and pushes the vile memory far, far away. He tosses it into a mental abyss, waiting until it's gone completely before striding into the calm of early morning. Some of the crew lounge without a care in the world, most of them just glad there isn't a storm brewing on the horizon. They play cards and tell jokes, most drinking from bottles that settle harsh on the nose. Only a few appear to be doing any kind of work and even then, it is done lazily.  
  
When he approaches, conversations go quiet. He's used to it by now, the last two weeks having passed without any need for introduction or indication that he's being accepted. In a way, he can't really blame them.  
  
In their eyes, he is an anomaly. Anyone can see that he isn't fully human and it's this strangeness that makes him feared; distrusted and hated. Even for pirates, the outlaws of the world, they are heedful of anything with sharp teeth.  
  
Walking to the bow, Lance is quick to take up his chosen spot. He pulls himself up to sit on the wooden wall before carefully situating his legs until they swing over the edge. Here it's easier to feel the wind cool the beads of sweat that have formed between his brows. Like this, there is only the sea to keep him company. He whispers odes and talks to his mother, though he knows that she is lost to him.  
  
He's trying to accept that he is alone. Serina is gone and without her there is no one who can console him. No one who understands the curse placed upon him; no one who would care to try.  
  
"Shut up." He tells himself, trying to stop the onslaught of self-pity.  
  
It will only make him feel worse.  
  
To distract himself, he stares at the rising of the sun. It bathes the ocean in brilliant reds and oranges, bits of violet and pink streaking between wispy clouds. The water shimmers but it isn't a cool, calming silver. It's alive as flame, so bright it threatens to blind him if he stares at a single spot too long.  
  
"You're late today."  
  
Jumping, Lance holds fast to the rail to keep from toppling over. Looking to his left, a young girl holds a bag full of clunky material in her hands: metal and wood and tools that Lance can't even hope to name. Her hair is cut short at the nape but it's full and thick, framing a face that is streaked with oils. But her eyes are sharp behind clear frames, piercing enough that it puts him on edge.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
She glances toward the sea, "You're usually here when the stars are fading, just in time to see the first rays of the sun.  You're late."  
  
Lance blinks, unsure of her intentions.  
  
"I mean," She continues, "it's alright that you're late. I just wanted to let you know that I noticed."  
  
She turns to walk away but it sends a jolt of panic through Lance. He was expecting insults and threats and propositions, not a form of strange, genuine conversation.  
  
"Wait!" He calls out, watching the way she whips around a bit too fast, as if startled. "Is that all you're going to say?"  
  
She shrugs a shoulder, "What else do ya' want me to say?"  
  
Lance grimaces and gets to his feet, holding up a hand to tell her to stay. He leans down and unlaces his boots, not really understanding why he tried to wear them in the first place. They're clunky, meant for protection against the elements and splinters from the wood but to him they're just _suffocating_. He kicks them off and hopes, secretly, that some mean spirited member of the crew will chuck them overboard when he's gone.  
  
The girl raises a bushy brow but doesn't question him. She just waits for him to get closer, head tilting up to meet his eye.  
  
"Where are you going?" He asks, forcing himself to remain calm.  
  
While he loathes his loneliness and wishes for companionship in any form, he's also filled with the desire to self-preserve.  
  
"Below deck." She pushes her round glasses up the bridge of her nose, "Why?"  
  
"Can I accompany you?" Lance blurts, knowing it's a foolish question. "I've never been anywhere but the upper deck and I-"  
  
"You're not on trial or anything." She scoffs, shoving the heavy bag into his arms with no warning, "I was just wonderin'."  
  
Spinning on her heel, she motions for him to follow.  
  
"What's your name?" She asks the moment they enter the cool, dark cabin.  
  
Everything sways with the ship, from hanging lanterns to empty bottles, snores filling the air in a din of exhaustion. It smells rank and there's not much room for comfort, almost every hammock stained by old, dried blood. They pass cannons and guns, swords and axes and even a harpoon; all objects obviously meant to be used during raids and fights. He eyes the harpoon the longest, the barb sharp enough to rip through the thickest muscle.   
  
"Lance." He eventually answers, dragging his eyes away.  
  
"Interesting."  
  
By the tone of her voice he can't be too sure that she's telling the truth.  
  
"I'm Pidge." She leads him through a small door and he has to bend low to get through, entering what appears to be some sort of work room. "I repair shit and keep this hunk of junk runnin'. Not to brag but i'm probably the only one with half a brain 'round here most days."  
  
A circular table is littered with contraptions and knickknacks, most looking more like torture devices than anything percievably humane. Sidestepping a pile overflowing with heavy iron, Lance sets the bag down on the table and watches as she immediately begins to dig through it.  
  
"What is all of this?"  
  
"I'm trying to build a box that can hold flame." Her face scrunches in agitation until she finally finds what she's looking for. She whips a small wooden cube from the confines of the bag, face lighting victoriously. "But it needs to look like wood to fool anyone who picks it up, my brother used to-" She shakes her head, "There's no point creating somethin' enemies can find use for, right? Sure, there are lanterns and torches and flimsy little matches but _this_ ," She pushes it close to Lance's face, brown eyes wide over the rim of her glasses, " _this_ will be able to _create_ fire."  
  
It's this moment that has Lance reeling. His world tips and he struggles to remain upright, blue eyes boring into her. Everything about her is familiar, from her exuberance and determination to her intelligence, curiosity as strong as a damn cat.  
  
"You remind me of someone." Lance admits, "I think you'd have gotten along."  
  
"Yeah?" She smirks and brings the cube back to her side of the table, already fiddling with a chipped corner and a small, thin knife. "They gonna board our ship anytime soon?"  
  
Lance winces, nausea spiking in his stomach. "Oh. Well...no. Probably not."  
  
None the wiser, Pidge simply shrugs and nods to the pillow across from hers. Lance debates leaving, suspecting he'll regret speaking to anyone on this ship at all. But this Pidge isn't staring at him in contempt, like she's planning to slit his throat while he sleeps. She's too busy asking him to hand her some kind of latch, pointing wildly with her knife, seemingly unfazed by their drastic differences.   
  
So, in the end, Lance decides to stay.

 

 

 

_******* _

 

 

Unlike Lotor's ship, this vessel has an untamable energy. It isn't held to the standards of high society nor that of the Royal Fleet, all susceptible to scrutiny in the eye of those with power. On the contrary, this ship is frightening because it is held to nothing but piracy codes passed from drunken lips. Codes that are broken and changed all the time, fitting to the needs of whoever calls upon them. Lance senses that wild energy the moment he leaves Pidge to her work hours later, knowing he'll get no more word from her so long as that strange cube has a chance of sparking.  
  
Something has put Lance on edge.  
  
He tenses, eyes sweeping the deck with the same practiced scrutiny that he'd relied on in Lotor's tavern. Threats, he learned, are almost always well hidden. They sneak up on you when you least expect it, privy to catching you off guard for a killing blow.  
  
Such as now, the hand that closes around his throat is thick and hairy and much too fast for Lance to see coming. He's slammed into the side of the ship, the back of his knees hitting a jut of sharp wood. He hisses, teeth pushing against the brunt of his gums.  
  
"Capn' says yer' off limits." The attacker grunts, spitting a wad of tobacco over Lance's shoulder. Behind him the deck has emptied, almost as if everyone saw Lance's predicament and found it to be none of their concern. "But I don' think that's fair. He ain't the _real_ Capn', ya' see, just a temporary replacement. I say if anyone can lead this ship, ole' Jonah can."  
  
"He's still," Lance tries for a cough but it catches in his throat, "you're _captain_ -"  
  
They guy, Jonah, sucks at his teeth, face pockmarked from some human disease. His eyes are dull and his hair is stringy from weeks without a wash. He smells like bile and piss, like rotten fish left on a dock.  
  
"You see him anywhere?" Jonah asks, "Cause I don'. Yer' all alone now, demon."  
  
"Demon?"  
  
If Lance could laugh, he knows he would.  
  
Instead, a leg is pushed harshly against his groin. He grunts and claws at the man's hands, wishing his nails were still as sharp as they'd once been, as strong as iron, he could rip sailor's throats out with a single swipe.  
  
Jonah's eyes move to his collar, "So yer' his pet, eh? You like to spread yer' legs-"  
  
Lance spits at his face, hoping it'll be enough to make the man loosen his grip. On the contrary, his fingers _tighten_. Lance wheezes, trying and failing to kick where it will hurt.  
  
"S'not fair that he keeps you locked up in his room." Jonah snarls, a silver tooth glinting behind chapped lips. "Wan' me to show you mine? Before I gut you like a fuckin-"  
  
With no warning, blood splatters from the confines of Jonah's chest. It's hot and thick and vile in the air, not even a single drop tasting good against Lance's tongue. It makes him gag and he fears he'll throw up the sauerkraut and bread he'd forced himself to eat for dinner. Jonah jerks, his fingers tightening even more before he finally lets go completely. A sword slides with a shlick of noise from his chest and he falls in a heap, dropping like stone at Lance's feet.  
  
Leaning against the wall Lance is left gasping, head pounding as oxygen slowly trickles back into his skull. When he looks away from Jonah's lifeless form, the crew has miraculously reaccumulated. In their midst Keith stand with his fingers wrapped tight around the hilt of his sword, chest heaving. He looks around, eyes narrowed, voice booming loud as orders thrown in a storm.  
  
"If any of you wish to touch him," He shouts, pointing the blood soaked sword at Lance's own chest, "now is your chance!"  
  
The crowd shifts, glances thrown from Lance to the corpse and back again. Pidge peeks through but Lance can't bring himself to meet her eye, all of his attention set on keeping him from taking that sword and plunging it into Jonah's head himself.  
  
"No?" Keith calls out, tone almost mocking. "None of you privy to mutiny? To _betraying_ your captain?"  
  
They don't move.  
  
Keith lowers the sword slowly, drops falling to stain the deck. Then he's slipping it into a sheathe on his hip and reaching for Lance's wrist, forcing him to walk. Lance steps over the body and doesn't look back when he hears a telltale splash, knowing the guy will bloat and fall apart, become torn and devoured by bottom dwellers.  
  
Keith leads him to his quarters, only letting go once they're inside.  
  
"I can handle myself."  
  
"You sure about that?"  
  
_"Yes_ , I'm quite sure." Lance scowls and wipes at his face, a streak of blood coating the hollow of his cheek. "But thank you."  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Thank you. For helping me." The look on Keith's face is undecipherable, like he expected Lance to do something rash, perhaps even take up a weapon against him instead. "I may not be human but I'm not an insufferable monster, either."  
  
"Never said you were." Keith clears his throat and takes a seat at the table, legs stretching.  
  
His own cheeks are red from the sun and his hair is knotted on his neck, no doubt swept and pulled by strong wind. Lance eyes the strands, suddenly very eager to get his hands on them. He inches forward, fingertips trailing on the bed post before falling to his side.  
  
"You really can't keep me locked in here forever." He says, "I refuse to be held as captive again."  
  
Keith grunts, "You're free to jump overboard anytime."  
  
"Very funny."  
  
"I can leave you at the next port, probably on Calamar." Keith offers, "Or if you fancy a ship we happen to raid-"  
  
_"No."_ Lance's heart jumps unpleasantly when he realizes just how far they are from where he originally began.  
  
It could takes weeps upon weeks to reach the his Pod's old resting waters and even longer to find someone who can break the collar from his neck.  
  
"Last time I checked, you aren't a part of this crew." Keith snaps, "You can't stay aboard without contributing something."  
  
Lance's stomach clenches. He isn't sure if it's a sick roll that takes to his guts or if it's a flutter. While he's not inclined to lay with the captain he supposes it wouldn't be terrible as long as it assures passage and safety. Looking at Keith, Lance can admit that he's rather attractive.  
  
Pretty, even.  
  
He gets close, until his knees brush Keith's own. The man leans his head back, staring up at Lance with distrust.  
  
"What do you want me to do?" Lance asks, "Because I need to get as far from Lotor as possible and I admit, you're my best bet for survival. Of continued escape. Whatever made me ask you for help in the first place did so for a reason."  
  
Keith doesn't say anything but Lance notices the way his eyes waver, dipping to his collar before returning to his eyes.  
  
"You want comfort?" Lance suggests, reaching a hand forward to finally rest in the hair at his nape, "I can give you that."

Before he can tug at the strands, Keith's hand is shooting out to grab hold of his wrist. He tugs Lance close, until they're nose to nose.  
  
"You aren't at the tavern anymore." Keith says, voice low. "You aren't my whore."  
  
The words make Lance flinch. He pulls away as if burned, unsure of what he should do.   
  
Keith turns toward the table and runs a hand through his hair, a single silver ring circling his thumb. He takes a moment to run his forefinger over the band before reaching to the bottle of alcohol rolling between two candles. After he takes a swig he hands it to Lance and kicks the other chair from the table, nodding in invitation.  
  
"If you don't want me," Lance sits and sniffs at the bottle, "what _do_ you want? What are you getting out of this? Forgive me if I don't believe you're doing it out of the kindness in your heart."  
  
Watching him drink, Keith shrugs. "Just earn your keep. Swab the deck, tighten ropes, check our chickens for eggs in the morning."  
  
Lance chokes a bit on his mouthful of wine, obviously spiked with honeyed rum. "Chickens?" He asks, trying to keep from coughing up his lungs.  
  
Keith nods, "Four chickens and one goat."  
  
"What's the name? Of the goat?"  
  
If Lance isn't mistaken, a corner of Keith's lip twitches. He looks down at his hands, picking at loose skin, "Ophelia."  
  
"I've never met a goat." Lance leans back in his seat and lets the wine bottle hang from his fingers. "Always saw 'em outside of my window but never got to _meet_ one...I'm guessing you stole it from some poor guy trying to sell his milk or something."  
  
"Maybe."  
  
Lance rolls his eyes but he feels better now that he knows the captain isn't planning to climb atop him while he sleeps. Though he's a bit shaken from Jonah, his breath is starting to flow a little easier. His muscles relax and the tension in his temple fades to a dull, barely pulsing ache.  
  
"I can clean and look after Ophelia so long as you promise to keep me on this ship. As long as you promise me protection under the power of your flag. I won't question your reasons for helping me or the secrets you keep." Lance brings the chair back to floor with a thud, "But I need something else, too."  
  
Keith looks to him, brow quirked in question.  
  
Lance tosses the wine bottle to him, watching the ease in which he catches it, "I need to swim."

 

 

 

_******* _

 

 

When the moon is at its highest, Lance climbs down a ladder built into the side of the ship. They've anchored in the deep but a small island sits close by, untouched by humankind. He spots the change in the water, bluest where they are but murky near the shore, where waves crash and froth.  
  
He's so excited, he's shaking. Before Keith led him to the ladder Lance stripped to nothing but a slip of silk, the clothing no doubt belonging to some duchess or lady before finding its home on this ship. But it's loose enough on his skin that the wind can touch every inch, through his hair and along his ribs, all the way down the base of his spine.  
  
The pull of the tide is wreaking havoc in his chest. His heart beats fast as a gull taking flight, the thrum loud in his ears as he leans forward, keeping both of his hands on the ladder behind him for leverage. It's so close but he still hesitates, suddenly unsure if this is all just a dream. Several days ago he'd been nothing more than a doll, used for the gain of a man he thought he'd once loved. Now, his home is so close he can taste it; practically breathe it in until yellow sea blossoms sprout in his throat.  
  
Lance tilts his head toward the sky but shuts his eyes, knowing if he were to look he'd simply tumble in. He wants to take his time. Tomorrow, he could be gone. Lotor could catch up and blow them all to bits- the man had done much worse to people who'd wronged him for much less.  
  
He balances on the instep of his feet before stretching his arms well above his head.  
  
Then, with the combining of his palms, he dives.  
  
For a moment he swears he is flying. It's so sudden he swears there could be wings at his back, sprouting feathers that will send him up with a gust of wind.  
The next moment, he is consumed. Cooled by the night, the water envelopes him completely. He kicks his feet until his legs burn, until his lungs burn and even his fucking eyes burn from the salt. But all of this is trivial. While he may have kept his teeth, his need for raw fish, his voice-  
  
His tail does not come back.  
  
For some reason he assumed it would. There had been a pinprick of hope that what Lotor had done to him would be reversed if only he could get to the sea. Being deprived left him desperate for that hope. Only now, it crushes him.  
  
He opens his mouth and he screams, letting out all of his breath until a torrent of bubbles climb toward the surface. Watching them rise, he wonders if he should just let go. So long as he's down here, alive or not, no more hurt by the hands of humans could hurt him. He'd have no need for the protection of pirates.  
  
Yet, after he can take no more, he rises. His arms help his legs push him toward the surface, toward the glowing moon and the stars. He erupts in a burst of water, gasping like a fish in a net. Brisk air fills his lungs and he blinks and blinks, shifting to float on his back. The water laps at him and he imagines it soaking into his skin, interlacing with the cells in his blood.  
  
Above, past the ginormous swaying ship and the sails and the flag sporting some kind of serpent, the stars shine as bright as they always have. Billions of them spread in a blanket, forming constellations, reminding him of the galaxy in which they spin. He'd learned names over time, the books he'd been shown by Lotor providing answers to questions he'd had since he was a guppy.  
  
Though where the human God Presivius holds two wartime shields, Lance's mom whispers: _Naya'il is the unfolding of the skies. Beneath her wings, she has a tail that extends to the horizon._ _She is the protector of sky and sea._  
  
Lance names every constellation he can see, from both human and siren mythos alike. For the first time in years, he feels a semblance of peace. He finds a lone star, brighter than the rest, before whispering the name of his closest human friend. Sirena would have liked that, he's sure. He smiles at the thought and dips his head back, letting a cool brush of water sweep at his brow.  
  
When he lifts his gaze to the ship, he doesn't even startle at the figure leaning against the rail. He's up high and his hair whips in the wind but as far as Lance is concerned, the captain is keeping his promise.  
  
For now, Lance is safe.

 

 

 

_******* _

 

"You glow."  
  
Lance wonders if Pidge will always sneak up on him like this. He jumps the moment the door to the captain's quarters shuts behind him, head tilting to see her hanging by the bend of her legs from a mess of rope.  
  
"I saw you in the water earlier. The light followed you all the way down and when you came up I thought you were being attacked by jellyfish."  
  
Turning to lean against the bottom of the steps leading to the helm, Lance tilts his head, trying and failing to line their faces correctly.  
  
"You look quite red." He muses, "Is all of your blood rushing to your brain?"  
  
Pidge nods, "Yes." Then she smirks, "But that isn't my point. I've been thinking and I've come to the conclusion that the captain watches you so much because he knows you hold great power."  
  
"Power."  
  
"Magic." She unbends a leg and reaches up to grab the rope with her fingers, lithe muscles lining her arm. "Or, rather, some natural occurrence that humans simply can't conceive by our own standards-"  
  
"Sorry to disappoint you."  
  
Dropping to the deck, Pidge's glasses are askew on her nose. Lance risks reaching forward to right them, surprised when she lets it happen. The moment they're settled, she gets closer. Her eyes are taking on a familiar glint, like she's processing a rhyme or trick.  
  
"I've ruled out you being some Deity because if you _were_ one, surely you could release that band from your neck." She circles him, "And you can't possibly be witch because you're missing the markings that state your element. Did you know they aren't as mystical as many believe? I have a theory that they simply study a basic compound, the natural form of the earth and find ways to manipulate it."  
  
He opens his mouth, stuck on her observation of his collar.  
  
Before he can ask anything, she continues, "So there's really only one other option left. An option that is even harder to believe than the others, but I've seen some strange things while sailing with Keith-"  
  
"Siren." He blurts, eyes squeezing shut.  
  
Saying it aloud is a risk. It's absurd and though he shouldn't feel it, there's a sense of betrayal to Serina the moment it passes his lips. Other than Lotor, she was the only other person to know.  
  
The only other person he could trust.  
  
Now, it seems he's lost his mind. Spilling his secrets to a _pirate_ , of all people, is a death wish. When he lets an eye creak open, Pidge hasn't fled to alert the nearest crew member. She holds no sword in her hand, fearful of his fabled voice and merciless hunger.  
  
She is beaming.  
  
"I was right, then."  
  
Lance shifts to the left and she follows suit, their bodies shadowed further beneath the steps. Someone walks past them, whistling an ugly little tune.  
  
But Lance isn't focused on that. He reaches toward his collar, glad to see Pidge's attention drawn to it.  
  
"You mentioned this." He whispers, "You said it like you know it's not just a necklace."  
  
"You're in pain. Anyone can tell."  
  
He nods, "I am. And if I don't get this off, I'll be dead."  
  
She stares up at him, eyes wide as a bird, "You want me to take it off for you." Without giving him time to answer, she continues, "Which will take time if I can even do it at all."  
  
"You aren't going to try to kill me?"  
  
"Why would I do that?"  
  
He shrugs, "Humans tend to hurt what scares them most."  
  
A barking laugh falls from her lips and she pushes a closed fist against his shoulder, taking him off guard. But for once, his instinct isn't to show his teeth in hopes of intimidation.  
  
"You don't scare me, lil' fish. _Nothin'_ scares me." She starts to back away, mind already moving a mile a minute. "I guess it's time to get to work, gotta figure out what kind of collar could have no clasp and you gotta tell me what it feels like-"  
  
"Wait, wait!" Lance grabs hold of her shirt, "Before, when I was attacked by Jonah, he mentioned something...strange."  
  
"Like?"  
  
"He said the captain isn't really the captain."  
  
Pidge's face falls and for the first time, she appears very skittish. "Right. That."  
  
"What did he mean?"  
  
She brings a hand to the back of her neck, rubbing at the sunburned skin. Some of it is peeling, flakes dropping to her shoulders. "Wherever you're from, you ever hear anything about the Champion? About his ship, the Star Drifter?"  
  
The names are unfamiliar, a void that isn't filled no matter how much he wracks his memory. If someone mentioned it to him and he told Lotor, _surely_ he'd recall something about it.

He shakes his head, "No."  
  
"Well, you will." She winces and pulls his fingers away from her shirt, gentle but firm. "I'm sorry, by the way. About Jonah. Next time, I won't hesitate."  
  
And with that, she's gone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kind comments and kudos! I'm having so much fun writing this and I hope you're having a good time reading it! <3 Every time I see a comment in my inbox i'm like aaaaaah! time to go write some more. So, thank you for the motivation. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm babbling. See you next update!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little note: Draconis is Latin for Head of the Dragon. 
> 
> Sorry for any mistakes, enjoy!

 

"You are lightning made flesh."

_-Cora Carmack_

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“We reach port in five days.” Pidge mumbles around a mouthful of tough rye bread, “Calamar’s a neutral island so there’s no need for a raid. But that doesn’t mean we gotta sit around while the rest of the crew fucks off, either. You can come with me.”

“Where to?” Lance asks.

He nibbles at the bread but surviving solely on human food makes him drowsy and weak, two things he knows he can’t risk being in a place like this. Sooner or later he’ll have to dive and find some damn fish, maybe bring a good haul back to sate the moody captain.

She shrugs and eyes his collar, “Anywhere they sell what I need.”

Cryptic, as usual.

Lance chugs warm rum, the taste sour in his mouth. Before he’d slipped to bed last night Pidge brought him mint leaves and a rough wad of cloth, smiling big to show off her surprisingly clean teeth. Now that he’s had them, he’d rather eat the leaves whole than take another bite of kraut.

“That is, if we make it there at all.” She wiggles her brows, “The Draconis has a reputation in these waters, y'know.”

Lance thinks of the flag apparently crafted in the far east, similar to the figurehead on the bow of the ship. Beneath a skull of a dragon, two swords cross at the blade.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been a little over two weeks since I raised my sword. Somethin’s bound to happen before we drop anchor at port.”

The thought of a fight had come and gone from Lance before but he'd managed to push the chance aside each time night turned to day. But now that Pidge has brought it up he swears he can hear the cannons, the way they vibrate across miles upon miles of open water. He stands fast, ignoring her questioning call as he sprints up the stairs.

Outside, the sails are loose to ensure a smooth pace. The ship churns water, the spray kicking up by large cresting waves, the kind that feels like phantom rain on his skin. But he can’t revel in it now. His nerves are buzzing, attention drawn to the horizon before sweeping to the helm where Keith is peering through a rather long eyeglass. Taking the steps two at a time, Lance situates himself in front of the instrument, successfully obstructing his view.

“Where’s the sword?”

“Hmm?”

Scowling, Lance slaps the eyeglass low. “My _sword_. I need it.”

Keith wipes at his brow with a forearm, drops of sweat trailing over the crest of his cheek to the hollow of his throat. The perspiration shines against his skin and strands of black hair stick to the slope of his jaw and temples. When his arm doesn’t do the job he lifts the red sash tied around his waist, the material tattered but good enough to ebb the damp flow.

“Do you know how to wield it?” He asks, finally sliding the eyeglass shut.

“Does it matter?” Lance leans his hands on the pegs of the wheel, ignoring the way Keith tenses. “It’s mine, isn’t it? Do you expect me to fight with no weapon at all?”

“Who says you _should_ fight? As long as you remain in my quarters-”

Lance stalks around the wheel in seconds, open palms slamming into Keith’s chest. “You underestimate me.”

“Do I?”

“And you’re _infuriating_.” Lance pushes again, until the captain is trapped between the wall and his body. Like a viper, Lance leans in close enough to bite. His teeth elongate, jaw popping in preparation to tear muscle from bone. “I could kill you now with just my teeth. I could tear your neck to shreds before that knife of yours can plunge into my lung.”

Keith’s blade doesn’t falter from where he'd sneakily placed it, the tip sharp enough to rip a small hole in Lance’s shirt. He lets out a shuddering breath though whether it’s from fear or disgust, Lance can’t tell. He takes a moment before backing away slowly, making sure Keith has a clear view of the teeth pushing back into his gums.

“Threatening the captain can warrant an accusation of mutiny.”

Lance hums, “Are you going to stab my heart? Toss me overboard to rot?”

“No.” The answer is fast, “I made you a promise. The best place for you in a fight is-”

 _“In_ the fight.”

They stare at each other, both much too tense. The wheel tilts and the ship follows suit, making Keith’s attention falter.

Then, with no warning, he sheathes his blade into a slip of leather on his wrist. Nodding, his voice is quiet and a bit breathy, “Okay.”

Lance says nothing when he shoulders past him to the bottom of the steps, whistling for his second-mate to man the wheel. It takes Lance a few seconds to see the subtle nod of Keith’s head, the way he watches Lance from his peripheral before heading below deck. It’s as much of an invitation that he’ll get but Lance races toward it anyway, disregarding the hollers thrown at him when he manages to knock over a bucket of mop water.

He races after Keith, pushing through the swinging hammocks and past the latrine, a simple hole that leads to the open ocean below. Pidge’s work room is sealed but a flame flickers beneath the door, letting him know she’s working inside. They carry on, taking another flight of stairs down before entering a place Lance has yet to explore.

If he thought the upper levels of the ship house many weapons, he was greatly deceived. This room is filled to the brim with blades and balls for the cannons, barrels of gunpowder and oils and even more harpoons. He can spot each shape easily, all sharpened and ready for battle.

Keith says nothing while he throws aside a large piece of beige cloth, the soft whoosh ten times louder in the silence.

Lance inches closer before stopping right behind Keith’s crouched form, his hands working at some kind of heavy metal lock. The chest itself is huge, each side covered in silver swirls and engravings in the wood. When Keith yanks the long sword into the air, it’s like seeing it for the very first time.

“Go on, then.” Keith grumbles, “Take it.”

Lance’s fingers find the hilt with an embarrassing quake. To touch it is like a final cementing that Serina is gone. If he takes it, it will seal the reality that all he has to remember her by is this single weapon. A soft huff of breath leaves Keith and he steps closer until he can use his other hand to carefully grab Lance’s. When it’s clear his fingers won’t be broken or bitten off, he situates Lance’s fingers around the hilt, making sure the entire sword won’t clatter to the ground.

“It’s forged well.” Keith says, “Cutlass like this can cut through anything.”

Nodding, Lance’s eyes roam along the slightly curved blade, finding each etching and groove to be utter perfection. He flexes his fingers on the hilt, noticing the way a lone garnet gem sits just beneath his palm.

“She was always excited to have one of these.” He says, “She just needed a good opportunity to get it.”

“The woman from the tavern?”

Lance gulps, “ _Serina_. Her name was Serina.”

Before he can dissolve into a sobbing mess, Lance quickly reaches for the sheathe still resting in the chest. He slides the blade inside and grinds his teeth, licking at the blood and torn skin on his lip to stop himself from doing something stupid. In the dark of the room, the captain is much too close. He’s a breadth away and he’s _alive_ , cheeks flushed from the sun, eyes hooded with emotions Lance can’t place. It’s not right, the way Lance wants to lean forward and taste his skin. Minutes ago he was ready to tear the man’s heart out, for Goddess sake.

“Will you teach me? To fight?” He suddenly asks, knowing he has to do something other than stare.

Knowing that if he doesn’t distract himself, he will seek comfort in someone who would quicker throw himself to the sea than accept his affections.

Keith looks at the sword and trails his eyes along Lance’s hand, all the way up his arm until he reaches his face. His eyes flicker as if searching for something. Lance keeps his features schooled, pushing back anything that could betray his feelings.

If Keith finds what he’s looking for, Lance doesn’t know.

He probably never will.

 

 

 

** _***_ **

 

 

As it turns out, Lance has no time to learn how to properly wield the sword at all.

He’s lounging on his bed when it happens, tired from a day spent swabbing the deck. It’s become a habit of his to try to keep it clean, which is almost impossible considering how many spilled bottles of rum and muck he finds on the floorboards. His skin has grown a darker brown from the sun and even though he’s still rather cautious around a majority of the crew, he likes to think he and Pidge have found a stable basis of friendship. When he feels trapped and full of panic, he finds her at any hour, content to listen to her ramble about components of weapons and endless nautical miles. He’s grown used to his routine, to the way the boat sways in calm waters and dips dangerously when waves tower above.

Still, nothing prepares him for the way his door bursts open, sunset burning orange in his eye. He winces and turns his head to the pillow, knowing it’s Keith by the way he move with haste and familiarity around the room. When the door swings shut, Lance sits up.

“What is it?” He asks, watching wide-eyed as Keith shoves on belts and buckles.

Keith glances up at him, face drawn to something guarded. Something fierce and cruel.

“You wanted a fight.” He grabs a pistol and shoves it into one of his belt sheathes before striding toward Lance, “You’re about to get it.”

Before Lance can protest the captain is yanking him up by his shirt. He pushes a long coat into his arms before holding up two straps of leather, the likes of which he quickly motions for Lance to put his arms through. It’s awkwardly tight on his abdomen but he refuses to complain.

“Here.” Keith grunts, flipping two pistols by the handle before shoving them into the sheathes on either side of Lance’s ribs, “If that sword of yours fails, use these. Point, aim and shoot.”

“And if that fails?”

Keith meets his eye, hand absentmindedly falling to Lance’s hip, “Use your teeth.”

The order is unexpected yet Lance can’t help but smile, a subconscious act that draws Keith’s attention like a moth to flame. When Lance glances down at his hand, he finally pulls away. He turns to his desk and rifles through papers before taking a small object into his hand, quick to drop it into his pocket. When he grabs his own coat from the back of a chair Lance wonders if all captain’s choose to wear something similar, perhaps to show their status. He recalls Lotor’s ornate coat, the way the buttons were always polished along his breast as he considered approaching vessels.

Keith’s, however, is battle-worn. It’s black as night, sleeves reaching his hands and stained with blood on the cuffs. Falling to mid-calf, it whips out behind him when he finally makes his way to the door.

Lance is quick to follow, fully expecting a fight to be raging on the deck. But when they emerge, all is quiet. Eerily calm. The crew stands with their hands on sword hilts and near the bow he can spot Pidge, the girl already climbing her way up to the crow’s nest. Keith strides to the helm, black hair rising in a strong burst of northern wind.

Looking to the horizon, Lance can spot a wall of dark clouds.

“There’ll be a storm.” He practically whispers to Keith the moment he finds a spot beside him, uncaring if the captain would rather he stay down with the crew.

Keith just nods, “I see it.”

“And the fight-”

“Take a look.” He interrupts, nodding to the wall and ladder behind him.

Lance scowls but climbs anyway, hefting himself higher until his view is no longer obstructed by planks of wood.

Only a few short miles away, there is a ship. His heart seizes in his chest at the prospect of it belonging to Lotor, eyes squinting to see if it sports the flag he’d grown used to staring at three years ago. But it’s too far and night is falling too fast, making a torment of nausea and anxiety fall into the pit of his stomach.

When he climbs down, Keith glances at him from the wheel. “Do you recognize it?”

“No.” He hates the way his voice shakes, the way it relays his fear. “It’s too far.”

Keith watches him for a moment longer, clearly debating something. But Lance is too busy readying himself for the worst outcome, fingers digging crescent shapes into the palm of his hands. If Lotor is on that ship, Lance fears that he is lost. Whereas he dreams about revenge, about his teeth snapping his spine, the reality of facing him again makes bile churn in his throat.

Suddenly, the ship lurches. Lance snaps his eyes to Keith, who has spun the wheel so far to the left it looks close to breaking off completely. The ships tilts and the sails billow, effectively turning the entire vessel around until they’re heading _toward_ the other ship rather than _away_ from it.

“What are you doing?” Lance snaps.

The last few beams of daylight begin to splay behind them but ahead, all is given to the dark. If not for the torches lit on the other ship, Lance wonders if they’d be able to spot it at all.

Keith brings out his spyglass and hands it to him, “Be my eyes.”

“What-”

“If you recognize this ship, I’ll blow it to bits. If you don’t, we board.”

Lance furrows his brows but takes the eyeglass anyway, surprised at just how well it works. He’s suddenly close enough to the opposite deck that he can see individual men and women rolling barrels and drawing swords, their clothes hanging from rather thin shoulders. The ship itself is smaller than he expected, _nothing_ like Lotor’s grand beast at all. He brings the spyglass toward the crow’s nest and the flag, searching for the unmistakable crest; three prongs for a crown, a skull resting within. Instead, there is only a plain circular shape.

“I don’t know this ship.” He mutters, letting the glass roam down the length of the nets.

“Find the captain.” Keith says, voice quiet at his back. “Describe them to me.”

Lance takes a step closer to the rail of the helm, ignoring the crew staring up at him from below. It takes a searching moment but soon enough he finds who he’s looking for, the man already staring back with a spyglass of his own.

“Short and stocky.” Lance says, “Full silver beard, round belly, a large brown hat and a coat torn at the shoulder.”

“Not the man you’re running from, then.”

“No.” Lance shakes his head, “Not even close.” He slides the eyeglass shut and glances back at Keith.  
  
Distantly, thunder rolls. It’s a deep, powerful noise, like the Goddess of the sea is rising from the depths.  
  
“We board!” Keith suddenly calls out, directing the order to the crew.   
  
They burst into motion, readying a plank and their weapons. Some take hearty swigs of rum and when he gives the eyeglass back to Keith, the captain is pulling his own bottle from beneath the wheel. It’s half empty and his gulp is fast, lips shining wet. He hands it to Lance, urging him to take it.   
  
“Call it liquid courage.” He smirks.   
  
Lance huffs and throws his head back, feeling the burn the moment it hits the back of his throat. Yet, when Keith directs him to throw it to the ground, he does so with no second thought. It crashes and breaks and across the deck others follow suit, a sudden roar of voices erupting into the night.   
  
Energy has turned to something feral, faces twisting and bodies buzzing. The ship draws closer and closer and at the last moment, before anyone can ring the first shot, Pidge pulls at a rope until a white flag raises toward the sky. Lance watches as the other ship follows suit, a bit confused at the civility.   
  
Before Keith leaves the helm, he brushes a finger on the back of Lance’s hand. “We will try to barter instead of fight.” He says, voice low and dangerous. “Stay close to me. If the captain does something foolish, I trust you to end his life.”  
  
_Trust._  
  
Lance wonders if Keith perhaps drunk more of that rum in secret, maybe before he’d even barged into the room and placed endless weapons on his body. Because for either of them to trust the other, they no doubt have to prove something. Keith has kept his promise so far but there’s a small twinge of suspicion in Lance’s mind, the kind that whispers: _he will betray you._  
  
The crew parts for their captain but their eyes fall on Lance one after another, barely concealed confusion and disbelief rising on their faces. Before now, they’d only seen Lance traipsing behind Pidge or brushing a hand on Ophelia, speaking to her in a gentle voice. To see him chosen to follow over Keith’s second-mate is no doubt a shock.   
  
When they reach the rails they don’t move until the other ship has anchored and the plank has extended, creating a pathway above the water. Keith steps up with ease, nodding to the crew waiting ahead. Lance gulps, knowing they can see the way his eyes glow a bit bluer beneath the slow climbing moon. They spot his golden collar and when he licks his lips, there is a hint of his razor sharp teeth.   
  
He wonders for a moment if Keith didn’t need back up at all. If perhaps he simply wanted to throw them off by Lance’s appearance alone.  
  
He refuses to be offended by it.   
  
On the contrary, there’s a spark of joy at the thought that he can scare weathered pirates, _supposedly_ the most feared monsters on the seven seas.   
  
When he steps off of the plank, he hears several other members of Keith’s own crew follow suit. The air is tense and full of static, distrust making everyone stay on the tip of their toes. But Keith saunters to the middle of the ship with nothing short of confidence, turning from a rather quiet, standoffish man to someone Lance would probably never have approached if he’d acted like this in the tavern. His body language screams familiarity with death.   
  
“Ya’ wanna go ‘bout this with honor then, eh?” The other captain says, offering Keith a spot at some sort of makeshift round table.   
  
It wobbles, no doubt pulled from below deck for reasons such as this.   
  
“I do think it’d be best for both of us, don’t you?” Keith tilts his head, eyes boring into the old man. “Captain…?”  
  
“Osric.”   
  
“Captain Osric.” Keith takes a seat, an arm thrown across the back of the chair. “I have no need for your gold and riches. Let’s talk about food. Fresh water-”  
  
“Now hold on, mate.” Osric scratches at his beard and sucks at his yellow teeth, “I ain’t agreed to anything yet.”  
  
Keith tilts his head again, finger twitching on his leg. The subtle move makes Lance shift, eyes sweeping the deck from one end to the other. Osric’s crew is quiet and somber but Lance can tell by their gaunt features that they’re practically starving. Lips are dry, tongues white; eyes wide and crazed.   
  
If Keith is trying to make a deal for provisions, he’s going to get everyone killed.   
  
“No?” Keith sighs and runs a hand down his face, “We done here, then? You go your way, I’ll go mine. No need for bloodshed.”  
  
There’s a sharp flicker in Osric’s eye, a glance that screams trouble. His gaze settles on Lance’s neck, at the gold he probably thinks is worth more than several ships put together.   
  
“We have no food. But we got three full barrels of fresh water, none of it's gone sour.”  
  
He tilts his head and several crew members roll them out, water sloshing inside. Keith eyes them before nodding, watching as his own men heave to bring them back to the Draconis.   
  
“What would you like in return?” Keith asks, keeping up the civil act.   
  
“How 'bout that pretty piece?”   
  
Keith follows Osric’s stare but he doesn’t look to the collar around Lance’s neck. Instead, their eyes meet and a subtle message is shared within a blink. Lance has learned to act fast when given a sign, unable to count the times he’d saved Serina and vice versa with just a look. His hand moves toward his waist and when Keith nods, a minuscule shift of his head, Osric has no time to react at all.   
  
The bullet fires in a puff of smoke, sailing past Keith’s face by a hair’s width. His eyes go wide at the proximity but it’s not like Lance can apologize.   
  
Before he knows it, chaos erupts like a geyser. Oscric’s eyes roll into the back of his head, his mouth splattered by thick red blood before it spews into his beard. Standing, Keith kicks the table over and pulls his own gun from his abdomen, firing into the oncoming enemy crew.   
  
Lance watches Osric fall onto the table, splintering the rotten wood in half. People scream and charge, swords clanging in a piercing crescendo.   
  
Suddenly, a hand grabs the back of Lance's neck, pulling him close.   
  
Keith’s eyes are alive with a new heat, like fire rages in the core of him. He pushes his forehead against Lance’s, blood staining the crest of his cheek.   
  
“Fight!” He shouts over the noise, fingers gripping Lance’s hair hard before he ultimately shoves him away, _“Fight!”_ He calls one last time, turning seconds before a blade can swipe his head from his shoulders.  
  
Like a shock to his system, Lance pulls himself away from his spot and spins, firing at a man with half of his face already hacked off. He’s hit in the chest, bone and flesh flying into the air. The shouts are loud and overwhelming but when the cannons begin their barrage, there is nothing that can compare to the booms. Unlike the echoing fights he’d witnessed beneath the waves, to hear the cannons now almost has him slamming his palms over his ears. They rock the ships, blowing holes until wood is sent into the chests of those in the lower decks. Lance looks to the Draconis but he can’t see anything more than a heave of bodies and smoke, thick and toiling in the air.  
   
He ducks beneath a blade that strikes toward his neck, quick to draw his own before plunging it forward. It goes into the woman’s stomach with a sickening crunch, right between her ribs. She wheezes at the punctured lung but still tries to cut him down, her determination wrought by disbelief that her end has come.  
  
Lance drives the sword in again, leaning hard to shove it deep into her heart.   
  
When he pulls it out, she is already dead. Blade bloodied, he blinks against the sting of his eyes and feels his gun kick before he even realizes he’s pulled the trigger. Someone’s eye is blown from their socket, scream cut off when a new blade slices their neck clean.   
  
When the body drops, Keith is standing like a god looking for vengeance. His entire body is covered in gunpowder and blood, hair pushed away from his face and becoming soaked in the newly fallen rain. It pours in a drench but Lance doesn’t have time to revel in it. Keith shouts something and points toward the plank, unable to say more before spinning to slice at someone’s gut.   
  
Lance looks to the direction he'd pointed and wastes no time running for it, hoping he understood correctly. Though the moment he reaches the edge, a rope is slung into his face. He looks up and spots people swinging from Osric's ship to the Draconis, most of their faces recognizable. It takes no time for him to climb up on the rail, boot slipping an inch as rain pours into his field of vision. He grabs hold of the rope and pulls himself up and up, until he can push with his foot and fly.   
  
What he doesn’t expect is a sword to swipe at his rope, severing him from safety. He shouts and drops fast, eyeing the cannon getting ready to fire below. If he’s stuck in the middle, he’ll be torn apart.  
  
His fingers brush the side of the ship but there’s no way he can grab hold of something solid enough, no way he can pull himself up-  
  
A hand shoots out, grabbing hold of his wrist with a bruising grip. He immediately kicks his legs forward, using the momentum to take him up a notch. Just enough for his savior to help pull him over the rail, his body falling in a heap on the blood soaked deck.   
  
Pidge stands over him like a lioness protecting her cub, pistol swinging to and fro. She shouts something and brings a hand to the air, holding up four fingers in some kind of message Lance doesn’t understand. Then there is a rumble, like the thunder and lightning in the sky has traveled to the core of the ship. It shakes the sails and Lance only has a few seconds to get to his feet, hand settled on Pidge’s shoulder before he stumbles to the ledge.   
  
The fighting on the other boat has ceased at the onslaught of new noise, the survivors turning in both shock and outright fear. They seem to know what’s coming and Lance follows a few of their gazes to the flag above his head, changed from white to the telltale head of the dragon. Accompanying it, however, is a piece of red cloth. This, he knows, means that victory will come with total annihilation.

Lance risks a glance over the side of the ship, eyes rounding at the sight of more port holes opening to reveal double barreled cannons.   
  
_“Fire!”_  
  
The voice is loud and strong and familiar, practically drawing Lance to the source like water down a ravine. He spots Keith taking hold of the wheel, appearing out of nowhere, his hands working the pegs with precision.  
  
The cannons let loose in a stream of destruction. One after another they pound into the side of Osric's ship, tearing it to the bone; to the skeleton. Lance spots barrels overturned, placed in a way that couldn’t have been unintentional.   
  
“Let’s test this box of flame.” Keith suddenly says, right behind Lance’s ear.

He tosses something into the air before it returns to his hand and Lance recognizes it easily as the object he’d pocketed earlier. He strides forward, giving Pidge a very pointed, almost proud look before climbing to stand on the rail. He grabs hold of a taut rope, feet spread wide to keep his balance, coat whipping behind him as the waves turn ferocious heights.   
  
How the flame erupts in his hand, Lance doesn’t know. One moment there is nothing and then there is light, burning bright and hot as the sun. Keith brings his arm back before throwing it as hard as he can, the flame flickering a single time before finding the center of Osric's deck.   
  
Keith's second-mate catches the strongest wind and leads the sails into it, putting distance between the two vessels with impressive speed.   
  
And then, just as thunder booms louder than any cannon, Osric's ship _explodes_.

 

 

_******* _

 

  
Years at the tavern taught Lance how to hold his liquor. He can work through a bottle slow, letting the alcohol come and go without leaving him a stumbling, careless mess.   
  
Tonight, however, is different.   
  
All that is left of Osric’s ship is a plume of smoke on the horizon, the smell carried by the last of the storms wind. The dead had been tossed over as they sailed far away, putting miles of distance between them before Keith finally ordered to drop anchor and haul bags below deck. Lance never saw any of the crew bring them aboard during the fight but _somehow_ , Keith managed to get away with stealing almost all of Osric's riches.

Lance chugs half a bottle of rum before Pidge snatches it from his grip, already wobbly on her feet. Shanties are sung loud against the messy playing of drums and fiddles and oboes, all joyful and high off of the victory. Torches are lit but kept well contained, making sure embers don’t catch on the sails.   
  
For as long as he can remember, Lance has loved music. With his pod they sung haunting melodies with the great whales, whistled above the waves when the moon was full and on several occasions, he’d even twirled in the water to the sound of parties just like this on the ships above.   
  
Now, however, he doesn’t use his tail to move. His feet keep him going and his hands raise toward the sky with no care to those watching, knowing he’s lucky to be dancing at all. He could have easily died during the fight: one wrong step here, a misguided shot there and he’d be sinking to the seabed along with the rest of the unlucky bastards.   
  
He shakes his head and keeps to his side of the ship, allowing Pidge his hand so she can spin around and around. She sings along to the current shanty, voice hiccuping in her throat.   
  
_Come all ye young fellows that follows the sea, now please pay attention and listen to me-_  
  
Lance learns the song fast, unable to stop the hum that soon morphs to words. His voice flows around the ship, undulating like the waves. He tries to keep quiet but the rum makes him disregard all else but this: the freedom. The freedom to protect himself, the freedom to drink with no need to hold a knife on his leg, the freedom to see the stars and hear the waves and know without a doubt that even if this collar brings him to ruin, he _will_ die where he chooses.   
  
The crew turns to him without meaning to. All eyes and ears are drawn to his voice, capturing their attention and soon after, their affections. He tries to quiet when he notices their gazes but they soon shout for more, eager to feel something Lance can’t explain. He’s not on the receiving end of his voice but they give in to the same sort of calm trance Lotor always displayed late at night. After he'd come to Lance bloody and spitting mad, no doubt having taken out his frustrations on some poor fellow by the docks, he'd get Lance to sing and look as if all of the world slowly melted away.   
  
When Lance looks toward the helm, a hiccup escapes him as his eyes find Keith’s lone form. He’s leaning on the rail, a bottle hanging from his fingertips, eyes shut against the wind. But when he opens them, they are settled on Lance. He blazes against the torches, looking so warm and so inviting it leaves Lance breathless.   
  
He ends the song with an abrupt shift of his body, pushing through the crowd as they blink awake, probably feeling as if they'd slept for days and gained back all of their energy. By the time he reaches the steps, the music has started again and drunken voices bellow at his back. But Keith doesn’t stay at the helm and Lance can’t help but follow him into the captains quarters, his feet moving as if drawn by a heavy rope.   
  
The door shuts behind them, the moon from the large window the only light that filters inside. No candles are lit but Lance knows he’s glowing, practically shining beneath the silver beams. And when Keith turns to say something, he can’t help getting closer.   
  
Lance doesn’t mean to do anything but touch his face, maybe just feel the stubble beneath his palm. But when he’s close enough, he pushes his lips forward and all is forgotten: his purpose on this ship and the blood on his hands, his quest to find his family and the death trap sitting snug around his neck.  
   
For a fleeting moment, there is only the heat and comfort of another person against his lips. He stumbles a bit but it doesn’t stop him from bringing his hand to the back of Keith’s neck, fingers tugging at his long hair. It’s softer than he imagined it would be but now that he’s touching it, letting the pads of his fingers roam through it, there’s no denying how much he actually longed to do this. Their breathing is raspy and desperate, teeth knocking together before finding a slower, softer pace.   
  
When Lance tries to direct them to the bed, Keith pulls away.   
  
He places a hand on Lance’s chest, urging him to keep his distance.   
  
“What is it?” Lance whispers, voice practically shaking. He looks to Keith’s mouth, wondering if perhaps he’d bitten down and drew blood.   
  
Keith looks ravaged, his eyes flickering over Lance’s face in that strange searching way of his.   
  
“You’re drunk.” He says.  
  
Lance nods, trying to press closer, “So are you.” He gulps and if he were sober, he’d probably stab himself with his own sword for the words that come next. “You’ve never hurt me, never tried,” He hiccups, “to take me. I’ve _never_ had a choice until now. But if you..I can choose you. Tonight-”  
  
Keith pushes him away, gently but with no room for question. He’s breathing fast, mouth opening as if he wants to say something. But when Lance takes a step forward, he strides past him, shoulder knocking into shoulder.  
  
“Wait.” Lance calls out, wanting to say something that will make him stay.  
  
For some foolish, crazed reason, he feels desperate for Keith’s touch. For _his_ touch alone.   
  
But the captain just glances at him once more, face void of the emotion that had been present only moments before.   
  
“You’re drunk, Lance.” He glances toward the bed, “Try to sleep it off.”  
  
And with that, Lance is left alone. 

 

  
_******* _

 

 

Port comes into view two days later and Lance watches as grey gulls swarm the beach, other ships already anchored at the harbor. The city island isn’t as large as the one he’d been stuck on but it’s obviously filled to the brim with people, the noise drifting all the way to the bay.  
  
Pidge swings down from the crow’s nest and moves to stand beside Lance, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.   
  
“What shop are you so excited to get to?” Lance asks, ignoring the feeling of a stare settled on his back.  
  
He’d successfully avoided the captain for the last few days, though he isn’t sure why. After waking with a pounding head and a dry mouth, he couldn’t remember anything from the night before other than the music. But the way Keith stared at him, as if making sure he was alright, made him feel a wave of apprehension and unexplainable regret.   
  
His body is unmarked and his clothes hadn’t been removed, which warrants his confusion as to why he still feels practically naked beneath his gaze.   
  
Beside him, Pidge gives no explanations.

Other than a quick glance to his collar, she just grins and grins. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I hope you had fun with this chapter!  
> The next chapter will delve a bit into Keith's past before leading to more chaos so that's always fun lol :) 
> 
> P.S. thank you for reading and for all of the wonderful comments <3 See you next update!
> 
> P.P.S. I'm currently writing two other fics atm and if you're interested in checking them out, here's the links:
> 
>  
> 
> [the stars that lead to you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16291079/chapters/38100992)
> 
>  
> 
> [The Merge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16271465/chapters/38049272)


	5. Chapter 5

 

"I must go, uncertain of my fate-"

_-Jane Austen_

* * *

 

 

 

 

Around every corner, Lance is ready to see a flash of long, white hair. Though this city is similar to that of his past in the sense that almost everyone is drunk on the sun and sea and rum, he only finds solace in the fact that he recognizes none of the buildings. Whereas his surroundings before had been embedded into his mind with every glance outside of the tavern doors or his own window, these new streets twist and turn with a bit of relief.

He follows at Pidge's heels and is more than intent to keep up with her brisk pace. She's moving fast through the bustle of trade and sailors, her boots crunching on sand and old cobblestone. Palms sway in warm wind and Lance lifts his head at the feel of it, glad when his hair shifts away from his damp nape. People pass curious glances his way but none stare for too long, though he's sure they're simply curious about the gold still latched around his neck. It pulses something fierce, making him gulp down a bout of nausea. The last thing he needs is vomit on his breath.

Still, there are more lively people here than he's seen in quite some time. Women walk in dresses of bright color, coral and rose and aqua paired with intricate fans. Their wigs are tall and makeup thick, red lips turning up at jokes passed between whispers. Lance isn't used to seeing men with cheeks painted pink, their shoulders pushed back in confidence and bourgeois fashion. There's order here, a sense of civility.

He can't help but stare at the vendors and the merchants, at the way they don't hold blood stained swords at their hips. Selling is easy, it seems, when coming to a city such as this. It's safer. Calmer.

Pidge doesn't take him too far before nodding toward a tavern on the corner of a less populated street. Here, there is less hustle and more lazy lounging, drunkards promising trouble if only by small disruptions to their otherwise structured peace. He passes a man wobbling on his feet and a child playing with a scruffy dog, his eyes flitting from Pidge before landing on Lance. Lance tries for a smile but it's easy enough to see the way the boy flinches. He all but forgot that his teeth are, according to humans, completely unnatural. He closes his mouth and turns away, gladly taking several lengthy steps to catch up to Pidge's slowing gait. She pulls at the band in her hair until thick brown strands cover either side of her face.

They sit at the bar in silence but Lance dares not speak, more than used to playing a role of disinterest. He blinks against the curl of tobacco smoke and leans his chin on his hand as if he has no care in the world; as if he's simply a tired sailor in need of a strong drink. Pidge's fingers pick at the wood but otherwise she appears relaxed, her shoulders dropped well beneath her ears. She smirks at nothing before letting out a high pitched whistle.

A moment later, someone arrives with haste.

"Pidgeon." The girl breathes, her long blonde hair braided against either shoulder.

Lance pretends that he isn't listening but he supposes it won't matter soon enough. Already, Pidge is whispering into the girls ear, her foot kicking at his leg. When he opens his eyes, the girl is inches from his own face. He flinches and withholds the hiss that wants to erupt from his throat, teeth growing sharp at the hint of a threat.

"I could feel you when you walked in, you know." The girl says, blue eyes wide and bright and intelligent. "The air grew cold like you brought the depth of the sea with you."

When Lance doesn't reply, she quickly straightens and motions for them to join her. Pidge hops over the counter, finding no issue with landing on her small feet. Lance, on the other hand, opts to walk around the entire counter. He ignores the way the girl stares at him while he approaches, her hands clasping tight in front of her waist.

"This way." She says.

They traipse through a swinging door and Lance is assaulted with hearty smells; like boiled meat and salty soup. The kitchen, other than the pot simmering on the stove, is vacant of anyone else. The girl looks around before pulling a large board across the floor, her muscles bulging. When it's clear, she grabs hold of a metallic latch and pulls up until the wooden floor gives way to nothing short of a strange hole in the ground. Lance peers into the dark, wondering if it leads to danger.

"Follow me, please." The girl says, already making her way down a shaky wooden ladder.

Lance watches as Pidge follows suit, her eyes flicking to his before she disappears into the dark completely. Then, after Lance is sure he won't give into his instincts and run the other way, he goes into the dark himself.

"Pull the door!" The girl shouts, her voice echoing from below.

Lance huffs and reaches up, quick to slam the trap door shut. He blinks against the stagnant black but knows it's ridiculous to think he can see through it. All he can do is feel for the next step and hope he can make it without twisting his foot. Once he finds solid ground, the sound of a match fills the air.

A lantern is held between them and Lance raises a sharp brow at Pidge, wondering if he should do something drastic: like snatch the lantern and run. For all he knows, this new girl could be aware of what he is and is using both he and Pidge for her own benefit.

"We won't be in the city much longer." The girl says, already turning away. She lights the path and Lance balks at the glistening stone walls, at the way they shine in damp glimmers. "Just keep up."

Pidge leans close to Lance and finally says, "Her name's Romelle. She can take us to someone who might be able to help."

"Help." Lance nods, not fully understanding why they have to be so secretive about it. "Right."

The journey is longer than he'd like but he doesn't really complain, especially when they begin to surface into a world of lush green. Here, the smell of the ocean isn't as strong but it's much more quiet than the city. At most, he can listen to the birds. As he climbs out of the tunnel and stands on sandy underbrush, he tilts his face toward the treetops and tries to catch sight of them. In many shades of colors, birds have always been curious creatures to someone like him. One of the sky, one of the sea; sometimes he wishes he had wings like Naya'il.

"We're close now." Romelle says, turning to glance at him.

They push through thick vine and for all of Lance's wonder at the jungle, he can't help but hope they reach their destination soon. Already, his skin is irritated from rough leaves and prickly thorns. He grimaces when one threatens to slam into his face but he ducks fast, earning a snicker from Pidge. Romelle tugs at a final wall of vine and then-

The water here is luminescent. Bluer than that of even the ocean, the gentle flowing streams converge in a maze before returning to a single gushing line. It trickles endlessly, creating a tranquil sound that matches the sweet calls of the birds. An impressively large tree is carved into a shape of a house, though not one like Lance has ever seen. The branches keep the roof safe from rain and the windows are rounded; the entire building looks like the epitome of safety and warmth.

"This is..." Lance glances up at the smoke trailing from a chimney, "not what I was expecting."

Pidge shrugs, "It'll make sense soon."

Lance isn't too sure of that. Still, he follows them over the streams and balances on stepping stones, trying hard not to smirk at the sight. Secretly, he thinks this little venture is turning out to be rather fun. Romelle calls out in a rolling language and from within the house they all hear a rather loud crash. A moment later, the front door swings wide open.

Within the filtered jungle light, Lance's eyes catch on the form of a round, handsome man. Dark ink sits on his cheeks and the palm of his hands and though he has a fringe of dark brown hair hanging on either side of his temples, Lance can spot a braid settled against the expanse of his back. He's shirtless and his feet are bare but even from this distance, Lance can hear him call in excitement to Romelle.

When they get closer, the man smiles wide at Pidge and grabs her into a fierce hug. She whispers something to him and his thick brows furrow before he sweeps his gaze up, all of his attention now resting on Lance. For a fleeting second, Lance fears the man will attack him.

But this never happens. Instead, he simply leads them inside of the house, where all is warm and bright. Lanterns hang from the ceiling, the flames casting pretty reflections on the walls.

"Sorry for the mess." The man sounds a bit timid. He clears off a few chairs and gathers up papers full of diagrams and maps. When he turns to set them aside, he says, "I wasn't expecting visitors today."

"What can I say?" Romelle ruffles his hair and leans down to peer at a bubbling pot. "I missed you very much!"

"I'm Hunk." The man says, suddenly coming to stand right in front of Lance. He looks at him like one would a normal friend. "I hear you need some help."

Lance nods, eyes shifting to Pidge in barely concealed confusion. "Right. Yes. I do."

Hunk grins, "Then you've come to the right place! Are you hungry?" He points a thumb back toward a pile of burning hot embers and the skillet set above. "I was just about to make lunch."

"Please." Pidge practically groans, "I'm famished."

"And you?" Hunk asks, meeting Lance's eye. "What do you like to eat?"

From the corner of his eye, Lance notices Romelle perk up in interest. She looks away from the pot and stares at him, as if enraptured by what he could possibly say. Not for the first time, Lance wonders if she knows what he truly is. If, somehow, she knew before even stepped foot on the island.

"Fish?" Lance shrugs and fiddles with his hair, "Uncooked, please."

The room goes quiet. It's so silent they can hear the stream outside and beyond, the whisper of the wind in the palms. And then there is laughter, booming and so sudden that Lance jumps in his seat. He looks around, wondering if they thought he was kidding. But after the first bout of laughter subsides, Hunk leaves through the front door and returns just as fast. In his hand, flopping and slimy and wet, is a large fish. It stares with beady eyes and Lance's stomach gurgles, his teeth already unsheathing from his gums.

"This'll do then, eh?" Hunk tosses it into the air and lets it slap back into his hands. "Fresh as it gets, no doubt about it. Uncharred, unboiled, still squirmin' all around."

Lance eagerly waits for it to be placed in his hands. The moment it is, he dips his head and takes a huge bite, uncaring of the sounds that produce from his feast. He chews fast and shuts his eyes, glad to taste the blood on his tongue.

"Fascinating." Romelle murmurs.

When Lance opens his eyes, this time he isn't surprised by the proximity of her face.

She stares at him with wide eyes, her lips lifting in a curious smile. "May I?" She asks, pointing her index finger toward one of his sharpest canines.

"He'll bite your finger off." Pidge warns, though she doesn't stop Romelle from trying.

Lance swallows the fish and leaves his mouth open just a tad, just enough for her to press the fleshy part of her finger against his tooth. He feels the pressure and knows that if she manages to prick her skin, if he happens to taste human blood now, while he's privy to devour his meal, something very bad may happen.

So, after a moment, he turns his head away. She takes it as her cue to back off and does so respectfully, already reaching for Hunk's arm. They wander to a table and go about shifting even more papers, until a fresh one lays on top. Romelle takes some charcoal and begins to scribble, her brows furrowed in concentration. Lance just takes another bite, uncaring about anything but filling his starving belly. Much better than kraut and tough bread, the fish is supple against his lips.

"So." Pidge eventually says, her own mouth stained with some kind of salted meat. "You've seen it by now, I suppose." She tilts her head toward Lance's throat.

Hunk eyes his collar, something akin to anger boiling beneath his otherwise kind face. He grunts and pushes up his sleeves, asking without the need for words if he can touch the gold. Lance gulps as the constant pain returns to the forefront of his mind. Though, in the end, he manages to tilt his head up to give the strange man a better view.

Dark brown fingers trace the edge of the collar and the raw bruising on Lance's skin. He taps at it, runs a nail against it, checks for grooves and patterns and scratches.

"You won't find a clasp." Lance says, his voice gravelly and nervous and, ultimately, hopeless. "This is not a normal contraption. It is dark magic."

"I see that." Hunk hums and turns away, his finger finding his chin. He lets his gaze roam around his house, lost in thought. "I've dealt with plenty of dark magic. Shadow sorcery, the kind that turns the bluest water to sludge and murk-"

Romelle stops her scribbling and looks to Hunk, her face morphing as if he were speaking to her alone. In a flash, she stands and uses a chair to give her height. She reaches high above the embers and opens a creaky cabinet door, her hands rifling through bottles and small wooden chests.

"Aha!" She jumps from the chair and holds up a vial, something spinning inside. Like water or mist, the silver color roams and swirls. "This should do?"

Hunk grins and plucks it from her hand, immediately setting to work on a small craft table. The two of them mumble to each other and occasionally Romelle shoots off to grab something else, though that is mostly kept secret. Lance simply nibbles his fish and looks around, feeling strangely content in their presence.

Suddenly, Pidge appears at his side. She watches him lick his lips and scrunches her nose, probably two seconds away from an insult.

"Who are they?" Lance asks instead, stopping her assault. " _What_ are they?"

Pidge shrugs, "They've known each other for a very long time. And they're good at what they do."

"You didn't really answer my questions."

"They delve into mystical practices. Both of 'em came to this island on a whim, callin' it fate." Pidge sighs and sits on the floor beside him, bringing her knees to her chest. She watches the embers, lids growing heavy. "That's probably how they found each other. Common interests and silly beliefs and all that."

"And how did you find them?" Lance asks.

Pidge smirks, a fond look falling across her face. "They saved my life."

She doesn't go into detail. Lance waits, wondering if perhaps she will. But time passes and she doesn't open her mouth again, instead settling closer to his chair. He has to stop himself from reaching for her hair, from twining his fingers in the strands and braiding it. Not so long ago, he'd do the same with Serina. The thought makes him look away from Pidge and focus his attention elsewhere.

"Right!" Hunk suddenly calls, finally moving from his work table. He turns and holds up a new chest, the likes of which looks opalescent and expensive. As if made from the pearl or the shells of multiple oysters, the colors shift in his large hands.

"The hell is that?" Pidge asks, looking at the object like it would shatter any moment.

Romelle claps her hands together, her eyes meeting Lance's. "You are in pain, yes?" Romelle asks, no doubt already knowing the answer. "Unfortunately, we can't remove that collar of yours."

Lance feels his heart sink, swallowed up and churned in a trench.

Hunk's expression falls, pity making him walk closer and kneel before Lance. He grabs his hands and surprisingly, Lance lets him. It's not like him to allow such abrupt contact. But he grips Hunk's fingers and tethers himself there, finding comfort in his warmth.

"I will work endlessly to find a way, my friend." He places the chest on Lance's lap, "But until then, this can help with the pain. And it will slow the process of your ailment."

"I was told," Lance clears his throat, hating the weakness he hears there. "that I will burn to ash."

Romelle shakes her head, "Not with this. Rub it along your neck each night, when the moon is highest. The elements inside will soothe you and stop the corrosive cells from multiplying."

Sighing, Pidge stands and offers to hold the chest herself. But Lance keeps it close, feeling protective and desperate. She looks at him in understanding, mouth down-turned.

"Thank you." Lance says, voice quiet.

Hunk nods and places another warm touch to his wrist, repeating his promise. "I will find a way to save you from this."

"You just met me-"

"You have a lovely heart." Romelle says from behind Hunk, her voice very serious. "You just want to find your way home. We will help you. It is our choice."

Lance blinks, his lashes wet.

Abashed, he looks down at the chest: at his only hope.

 

_******* _

 

Returning to the city, Lance is surprised to see it is a mess. People push and shove and somewhere, distantly, sharp screams ring out. Soon after, the sound of heavy cannon fire bombards the air.

Pidge immediately takes off, her steps heavy on the floor of the tavern. Romelle remained behind with Hunk and Lance is grateful for it, though he did try to get them to come with him. Even now, with his heart in his throat, he wishes Hunk had agreed to journey across the sea with the crew. He hurries to keep up with Pidge, the chest kept safe by a satchel hanging across his shoulders. He holds it close to his hip and surges through the crowd, immediately searching for any sign of Keith.

Another bombardment of cannon fire slams into the port town, making buildings shake and animals scatter in a ruckus. They run toward the harbor, the exact opposite way of the town's inhabitants. Whereas they run away from danger, Lance and Pidge sprint toward it.

The moment they make it to the beach, Lance spots the Draconis in the water. And on the helm, shouting orders and readying the sails, is Keith. Like a string pulling taut and linking them together, Lance pushes through the remaining chaos and clambers his way aboard, meeting Keith's eye almost immediately. The captain grabs hold of Lance and pulls him close, quickly shielding his head from a barrage of flying wood. A cannon ball sails through the air and slams into a fort on the beach, a flag housing the head of a lion become tatters in the wind.

"What's going on?" Lance shouts, quickly moving out of Keith's embrace.

Keith lets him go and turns back to the crew, shouting another round of orders before the sails finally fall free. He glances at Lance, "Do you recognize that ship?"

Looking for the first time, Lance spots the huge beast sailing closer. He stumbles back, his hand clumsily resting on a peg of the wheel. He nods, his eyes wide, heart hammering in his chest-

"We'll outrun it." Keith says, face set in stone. He's tense but he doesn't take his eyes off of Lance, "You will not step one foot on that ship."

"Be realistic, Keith." Lance interrupts, "We won't make it through this bay. He's blocking us. He'll turn your ship to ruin."

Keith nods and jolts as the ship lurches away from the docks, the wind immediately picking up. Stepping closer, Lance tries to tell himself that he isn't hiding behind Keith's body. But he can feel eyes on him, watching him from across the churning water. He can feel Lotor's stare and it is a burning, searing plague.

"Mine, possibly." Keith agrees. He rests a gentle hand on Lance's elbow, steering his attention forward. "But not theirs."

Surrounding the island, there is a cliff that rises high. And coming around that cliff, with a flag the color of daylight clouds, is a regal ship of speed and resilience. The flag that flaps in the wind is similar to that on the fort, with a roaring lion appearing ready for battle.

"Who-"

"The Royal Fleet." Keith says, voice taking on a hint of something sly. "This island is under the queen's protection. Assuming they were coming to scare us off, it seems they have a bigger problem now, don't you think? What are measly pirates compared to the son of a pirate _king_?"

Lance could practically fall to his knees with relief. Though Lotor likes to pretend he is nobility rising from the dirt, almost everyone in these surrounding islands know his true origins. Lance turns to Keith and pulls at his lapel, making him focus less on the impending battle and more on him.

"How did you know?" Lance asks, "How could you figure that Lotor would show up here today? That the Royal Fleet would enter the game?"

Keith shrugs, "Until ten minutes ago, I had no idea."

He grins and Lance can't help but feel his own mouth quirk, his breath stolen by a new brisk wind. The sails flair and the ship picks up speed, heading to the right of Lotor's own. For a scary while, Lance thinks this impromptu plan will fail. That Lotor's desperation to regain his _belongings_ will override his longing to survive. But soon enough, the sea fight turns from the town and the Draconis is free to sail safely away from the destruction. Keith looks to Lotor's ship but Lance keeps his head down, fearing what he'll see if he glances up.

"Do you always rely on pure luck?" Lance asks the moment they're outside of firing distance, feeling the weight of the chest on his hip. He debates telling Keith of it but withholds the information, at least for now.

"Always." Keith admits. His grin slowly fades, until he's staring at the open ocean with trepidation. "Still, luck only gets me so far. The second the Queen finds out about you...we'll have bigger problems."

"Why?"

Keith reaches for Lance's hand and places it on the wheel, urging him to steer. He turns to lean on the railing ahead, looking at Lance with a mixture of emotions.

"If Lotor is who I've heard he is," Lance assumes that information was gained from people in the city, "then he is a master of manipulation. Of twisting truths to get his way."

"You think he'll let the Queen put a warrant out for my head." Lance says.

"I know he will." Keith sighs and runs a hand through his hair, "If he gets his way, I'll have a price on my head as well."

Lance nods, expecting as much. "Trust me, I know all about his ability to manipulate."

Keith opens his mouth as if he wants to say something more, as if he's full of questions that need answers. His hand grips the railing behind him, knuckles turning pale. Another moment and Lance fears he'll break the wood completely. Instead, he turns away and leans both of his hands on the rail, letting the wind push his hair back from his face. Lance stares at him for a long time, until the sun begins to set below the distant horizon.

"Where are we going now?" Lance asks, breaking the silence.

Sighing, Keith turns to look at him, his hair brushing against his cheek. He looks contemplative and, if Lance were being honest, a little fond.

"We're gonna need help in this fight." Keith says, risking a few steps forward. He places his hand next to Lance's, though their fingers don't touch. Foolishly, Lance wishes they would. Keith looks up at him from beneath his lashes, something savage in his eye. "We're going to find my brother." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT 
> 
> my job is killing me and it's been really hard to find the motivation to write but after updating one of my other stories, I think I've gotten back into the groove. i hope you liked this chapter and the next will be up soon! <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any mistakes!

 

 

"You only have to let the soft animal of your body  
love what it loves."

_-Mary Oliver_

* * *

 

 

Open sea settles well on Lance's shoulders. He's taken to constantly balancing on the railings, his feet finding stability as easily as if he were walking on solid ground. He grabs hold of a rope and leans forward, letting his cheeks feel a distant spray of ocean froth. They're moving at high speeds, through sunrises and sunsets, until it feels as though they are flying.

He likes to pretend that he is. Now that he's been consistent with the salve, his nerves have begun to settle and his skin no longer feels like it's on fire. He brings a hand to his nape and smiles softly, quietly, to himself. Though the weight of the collar is still there, it feels as if he's one step closer to being rid of it completely.

Sucking in a deep breath, he lifts his head toward the sky and feels the warm wind brush against his cheeks. Around him, the crew continues to mill about, content to let the sails take them where they need to go. It's been days since they'd encountered another vessel and longer since they'd braced against a storm. Lance keeps a steady eye out for danger but it seems, for the time being, the ocean has given them a small reprieve. He thanks it, glad to feel it roll and crash beneath the deck.

Glancing toward the helm, he looks through hooded eyes at the captain.

Keith is a stronghold to Lance, though it's hard to admit it. Where the captain wanders, Lance can't help but follow, almost eager to hear him relay plans and give orders. It's not like he talks much as it is and Lance has always been a very vocal creature. He continues to look at Keith and notices the way the captain is very deliberate in _not_ looking at him.

Something has begun to shift.

More so than the drunken bout of Lance's confessions, full of desperation to ease his loneliness, there is an intimacy springing between them that hadn't been there before. Lance's lips tilt upward but he turns his face away before he can truly smile. With a soft exhale of breath, he turns and jumps from the rail, eager to get on with his business and to steer his mind away from hopeless thoughts. He passes beneath the helm and trails into the underbelly of the ship with purpose, picking up a pail and a bag of aging vegetables along the way.

Passing the kitchen and Pidge's workshop, he stops only when he can smell an even stronger scent of hay and animal musk. The goat is sleeping when he arrives but soon she wakes, eager to eat what Lance is offering.

"Hello, Ophelia." Lance smiles and marvels at the feeling of soft furry lips brushing against his palm. "I brought dinner."

The rest of the vegetables he dumps in front of her, knowing it's best to keep her distracted while he gathers milk. While he isn't very fond of it, Pidge having tried more than once to get him to eat a curdled ball, he knows it's good for the crew. So, with a little grimace of apology, Lance tries to milk the goat as quickly as possible. Though the act isn't high on his list of favorable activities, the quiet certainly makes up for it. The ship creaks and groans and voices are very muffled, creating a small little haven for the two of them. Here, he has time to think. He has the privacy to feel.

In front of hardened pirates, the latter is more difficult. Now that he's secluded, he lets his mind drift. And as always, with no hope of stopping it, he begins to remember. After being in Lotor's clutches for so long, Lance had grown used to missing his mother. He still longs to see her again, to feel the kelp in the underwater fields surrounding their cove between his fingers. He'd pick the kelp and seaweed and help her create a thick sludge, the material helpful in healing and cleaning their tails. He smiles at the thought and if he tries hard enough, he can hear the way her voice would carry across the pod, all the way to the smallest guppies sleeping within their beds. He thinks of his brother, of the spear that took him away and the sound of his laughter.

Sighing, Lance flexes his fingers and gives Ophelia a small break before continuing again.

"Sorry, sorry." He mumbles, "I know you probably hate this. I would too. But I promise to steal an entire carrot for you soon."

Ophelia huffs and Lance rubs at her ears, feeling a very small protruding of rounded horns at the crest of her forehead. When he gets back to work, there is no stopping the rush of mourning that pools in his chest. It threatens, as always, to steal the breath from his lungs.

Eyes growing hot and damp, he gulps and says, "Serina and my brother would have adored you. They would have treated you like a little baby." The word is awkward on his tongue, his accent growing thicker the harder he tries to withhold tears. "But you know, where I come from, we think our fallen loved ones swim beside us. Even in the most frightening storms, they wrap around us and keep us safe. They're probably here now, right? Petting you, laughing at me for having to do this." He looks at the milk gathering in the pail, sniffing.

It grows quiet but Lance can't help but ramble again eventually. Better than laying beside the goat like he'd done the first few times he'd visited her, body shaking from wracking sobs.

"This human language is lacking of many things." Lance admits, "In my language we say _lii trul muna sep tri aei panau._ "

"What does it mean?"

Jumping, Lance lets go of Ophelia and turns on his knees, eyes wide. In the small doorway, Keith leans against the wall, his arms crossed. He looks a bit uncomfortable, his jaw clenched and his throat bobbing in a swallow.

Lance, on the contrary, is not embarrassed. Simply bemused, the initial shock of being interrupted fading to curiosity.

"How long were you there?"

Keith shrugs, "A few minutes. I came to find you, to ask you something." He pushes away from the wall and offers a hand to help Lance up, his palm warm from steering beneath the sun. "Your voice...in your language, it doesn't even sound real."

Tilting his head, Lance blinks at him. "Hmm?"

"It sounds like a song." Keith furrows his brows, "It's very beautiful."

Lance feels a new heat spread along his cheeks. It's been happening more and more and though he knows it's a natural reaction, he still isn't used to it. For years he'd been a blank slate, practically frigid in the face of compliments and advances. Now, he can't stop.

Looking down, he notices the way his hand rests within Keith's grasp. His skin is pale but tanned from the sun, whereas Lance's is a warm brown and splattered with freckles. But what he notices is the jump of Keith's pulse at the base of his wrist, how the man has not tried to let go.

"Thank you." Lance says, voice quiet.

He takes a small step back, knowing it's useless to believe anything can happen. So, to distract himself, he picks up the pail of milk.

"What did it mean?" Keith asks again, voice slightly scratchy.

Lance rubs at Ophelia's nose and grabs the empty vegetable bag next, "It's a parting and a promise." Lance explains, " _Like the moon, we will rise again._ "

He turns to look at Keith and smirks as he shoves the pail into his hands, a small drip of milk sliding down onto his arm. Keith huffs but doesn't complain as they make their way back through the sleeping quarters. Several men and women are sleeping, their faces red from the sun. Keith brings the pail of milk to the cook and grabs a bottle of rum on the way out, nodding his thanks. When they make it to the deck, Lance recalls why Keith had shown up to begin with.

"You had a question?" He prompts.

Keith nods and looks toward the helm, glad to see the wheel stable. Which means, much to Lance's slowly growing delight, that the ship has dropped anchor.

"How would you feel about going for a swim?" Keith asks, pulling the cork from the bottle. He takes a small swig, eyes darting away from Lance's face. When he places the bottle on the ground, he wipes his mouth and continues, "How'd you like to go swimmin' with me?"

"With you." Lance repeats.

Keith just nods. And though his hair is long and the wind is pushing it against his face, Lance can see a flush starting at the nape of his neck.

So, with a thrill in his stomach, Lance smiles. "Let's go, then."

_******* _

 

After jumping from the rail, Lance feels the water blossom around him in a familiar caress. Keith opted to take a rowboat out to deeper waters but Lance has no problem trailing behind, swimming at his leisure to catch up. The sun is beginning to dip beneath the horizon and the wind is growing a bit more brisk, giving him even more energy. He kicks his feet and opens his eyes beneath the water, ignoring the slight sting of salt.

Up ahead, he can see the underside of the rowboat and the ripples of the oars as they're pulled in. And, right after a new anchor is pushed to drift to the deep, Keith jumps in too. His body creates a splash on the otherwise glassy surface and bubbles surround him, pushing at his hair and between the space of his fingers. His shoes have been left on board and all he adorns in a loose pair of pants.

Lance is, momentarily, transfixed. His lungs begin to burn but even after Keith has gone up for air, he can't bring himself to follow. Instead, he turns away and swims even deeper, straining his ears to hear whale-song or the squeak of dolphins catching the currents. Other than his own breathing, there is silence. He waits and waits, until he fears he'll simply let himself drown. But soon he kicks his way up and engulfs the air when he surfaces, eyes opening to meet the light of the full moon. It bathes the sea in crystalline light and he knows he's glowing; he can see it reflected in the water, can see the way Keith stares at him as if he were a marvelous wonder.

"It's luminescence." Lance says, voice breaking the silence. He doesn't know why he's saying this at all and yet, he continues. "It's mostly for survival, to ward off predators from the trenches."

Keith swims closer, his hair slowly falling from the band that tries to keep it pulled back. "I don't mean to stare." He says, though his eyes find their way back to Lance's body anyway.

"Usually I hate it. The way humans look at me. The way _he_ looked at me." Lance licks his lips, knowing it's a leap of faith to admit these things out loud. He shakes like a leaf in the wind, his stomach clenching even as he brings his hand to reach for Keith, to direct the captain's fingers to the shimmering scales trailing up the inside of his arm. "But with you, it's different. I think it always has been."

Keith's fingers create a trailing glow, one that shines bright in the wake of his touch. He brings his fingers up to the inside of Lance's elbow, where they rest. When he looks up, he looks so young; so unlike the feared captain, the rogue captain, the violent, angry captain.

"Keith."

"I'm sorry." Keith interrupts, slowly pulling his hand away. He drifts back a bit in the water, "I'm sorry you've gone through this. That I haven't been able to return you to your family yet."

Lance shakes his head, "Don't-"

Keith pushes his hair back from his forehead, "You didn't deserve what happened to you. And even if kills me in the end, I swear I'll help you. I made up my mind the moment you asked to leave that island with me."

Lance is frozen. "Why are you promising this? Why are you saying all of this now?"

"Because I know what it's like to be lost."

With new tears in his eyes, Lance lunges forward. He wraps his arms around Keith's shoulders and shudders at the heat of his skin, at the way the water is slick between their chests. When he pulls away, it is only by a few inches. He looks at Keith with wide eyes, his hands rising to rest on either side of his neck. Thick black hair settles against his fingers and he longs to pull at the tresses, to run his fingers through them and braid them-

"Kiss me." Lance whispers, voice harsh with longing. "I'm not drunk. I'm not out of my wits. I need you to kiss me, Keith."

For a second, Lance fears the captain will push him away again. That he'll build his walls and leave Lance to patch up his own, until they're standing on opposite sides. But with a shuddering release of breath, Keith leans closer. Not enough to touch their lips together, nor for Lance to even feel his breath. But it's close enough to give Lance the final decision.

And he chooses to go forward.

He pushes his lips against Keith's and feels it like the breath of life, the fabled kiss that can bring the dead to the world of the living. Lance heard the stories when he was young and though neither of them are dead, he knows this must be what those long ago lovers felt when they were finally reunited.

He tilts his head and nips at Keith's lips with his sharp teeth and the sound Keith makes leaves Lance humming, his voice bordering on a trill. He pushes them back in the water until the rowboat is settled behind Keith's back and they are stable. He finally pushes a hand through Keith's wet hair until he can run his fingers against the strands at his nape. When he pulls away, Keith lets him. There is no forceful tug back, no snarky words or scathing looks. The kiss was innocent in a way Lance forgot existed and he revels in it, lips falling on Keith's again and again in small pecks. Keith brings a hand to Lance's cheek and he runs a thumb along his skin, the blue color reflecting in his eyes.

"I've wanted to do that for a very long time." Keith says.

Lance nods, "It took you long enough."

At this, Keith looks shocked. And then, like the sun breaking over the horizon, he smiles. His laugh is quiet and Lance soaks it in, feeling pleased that he made him create such a sound. With another playful peck, he pushes away from Keith and dips his head beneath the water, quickly swimming away. He feels giddy, like he's once again a youngling filled to the brim with ideas of courting and flirtations and endless hope.

It's more freeing than when he took his first step on the Draconis. It's more freeing than the waves.

 

_******* _

 

Rubbing the salve on his neck, Lance's hair has long since dried and he's still jittery from the kiss. He looks in the mirror and tilts his head, eyeing his throat. The skin is a bit red and he applies even more salve, enjoying the subtle hint of herbs against his nose.

With a sigh he looks to the bed and shuts the chest, knowing he needs sleep. Pidge mentioned their arrival into new territory tomorrow, where ships from all over the seas like to roam.

 _"Is that bad?"_ Lance had asked.

Pidge shrugged, _"Depends on who you meet."_

Foolishly, Lance had begun to enjoy their peaceful days. But the truth is the truth: there is no avoiding danger on a ship like this. He bares his teeth and sees the sharp glint of them, knowing he's more than ready to tear out throats. But now that the ghost of Keith's kiss is on his lips, he feels something even more fierce spark inside.

Merfolk are many things. Loyal, playful, curious.

But more than that, they are incredibly protective. Other than Serina, Lance hasn't felt the need to keep another person safe since he'd walked on land. But now, thinking of Pidge and the crew and _Keith_ , Lance can't help but feel desperate with the need to bloody his own teeth in their name. Pushing those thoughts away, Lance lets his fingers roam over Keith's belongings. The moon shines through the glass behind the desk and Lance knows that right above him, the man is probably leaning against the railing, watching the stars.

Alone.

Part of Lance wants to drag him here, to lay him down and let him sleep in his own bed for the first time in months. But the other part of Lance is weary of this; knowing it takes only one moment to feel the fires of betrayal.

In the end, no matter how much his mind yearns for Keith in the dark, his body refuses to let go of the past.

 

_******* _

 

"These are dangerous waters." Keith mumbles, staring into the telescope. 

Lance stands close, his fingers playing with the hem of Keith's shirt. When Keith hadn't pulled away and instead got closer, his own touch settling on Lance's wrist, confidence surged through Lance. He motions for the telescope and Keith willingly gives it over, hands returning to the pegs on the wheel.

Walking away, Lance bounds down the steps and rushes toward the bow. He climbs up and balances himself on the protruding wood, fingers working to zoom the telescope's visibility range. He scans the ocean in precision, remembering Keith's words from long ago.

_Be my eyes._

Behind him, Pidge makes her way to the crow's nest. She climbs with agility and skill and Lance knows that between the two of them, they're bound to see through this mist. The crew is quiet and somber, their steps seeming too loud in contrast. They pull at the sails and take hearty swigs of rum, many of them keeping an eye on Lance to make sure he doesn't slip. While he's thankful for it, he knows it's unnecessary.

They push through the water and Lance knows he's on the lookout for two things: other ships and land.

 _"The city of Lapione. Miles from the Eastern sea of the Tailuut, it's untouchable by both the Royal Fleet and other pirate lords with thirst for a good fight."_ Keith had mentioned earlier that day. _"It's a pirate haven, bound by laws of neutrality. That's our heading."_

Now, Lance can only wait in anticipation for a glimpse of the place. He grabs hold of a thick rope and swings the telescope around, wondering if perhaps Keith was following a lost trail. Though he spoke of the place like he'd been there before, Lance wouldn't blame him for becoming disoriented in a place like this.

But just as he debates lowering the telescope and returning to the helm, there is a flicker of light ahead. Through the mist, the orange glow is a small prick in the vast gray. But soon, more and more begin to shine and the island comes into a view like a towering beast. Torches guide them close and Pidge shouts from the crow's nest, her voice rousing the crew at the sight of land. From this distance, Lance can already see the ships littering the place, many of them flying flags of differing colors and symbols and meanings. Distant sounds travel through the fog, ranging from beating drums to shouting voices; even breaking glass. The torches trail up  a steep cliff-side, the dense palms and trees separated by ships that had been hauled up and latched tight to create makeshift taverns and brothels and inns. And at the very top, molded from thick metal and the preserved hulk of a wooden ship, rests a large skull and crossbones.

_Lapione._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you all liked this chapter!!! Lance is trying to trust Keith and Keith is *cough* probs falling in love idk *cough* There are more dangerous times ahead, though maybe not in the way you're expecting.
> 
> <3 i hope you're all having a wonderful day/night!


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

"You linger, yet the time is short:  
Flee for your life, gird up your strength."

_-Christina Rossetti_

 

* * *

 

 

They anchor the ship in a cove, the blue water reflected by torches planted along the rocky walls. Lance leans his head back to stare up at the roof, watching as ripples reflect and bounce all around. The space is huge and impressive, housing two other ships that had gotten there not long before them.

"We'll be staying on the island for a while." Pidge says, hitching a bag over her shoulder. "I figure you should get everything off of the ship that you'll need."

Lance nods, already thinking of his salve and sword. The crew works with haste to bind the sails and pull in the rope, grunting as they roll barrels to the underbelly of the ship for long storage. Ophelia is taken from her pin and Lance waves at her, though he knows she doesn't understand the gesture. He can only hope that she isn't being taken to slaughter; that he'll have many more nights to sit beside her. After a while he moves to gather his own things, adorning a flowing white shirt to lessen the feel of the sticky heat. He slips his sword into the leather sheathe on his hip and places the chest of salve in a pouch very carefully, mindful of the latch that keeps it shut.

When he's ready, he leaves the cabin and notices that almost everyone else is already gone. A few linger along the docks but they don't pay Lance any mind. For a moment Lance thinks that even Keith has left him alone and he'll have to navigate Lapione alone, with no direction or destination. But soon he hears heavy steps on the deck and the slide of warm fingers on his wrist, a fluttery touch that settles his nerves.

Turning, Lance meets Keith's eye. "Your brother is here?"

All at once, Keith's mouth turns to a small grimace. "I can only hope."

Before stepping foot outside of the cove, and regardless of the view when sailing in, Lance underestimated the sheer size of the island. Shouts and drums, guitars and laughter fill the air in sync with the waves crashing on the rocky shoreline. Smoke fills the air from both open fire pits and tobacco pipes, the smell of rum sitting heavy on the wind. Lance blinks against the haze and follows Keith through the winding streets, careful to avoid stumbling figures and even roaming chickens, their feathers leaving trails in the muck.

Many pirates eye them with curiosity, their expressions a collage of surprise and respect, and sometimes even the desire for a challenge. Keith holds the air of a captain and he holds it well, his shoulders squared beneath the flowing cloak of his sea weathered jacket. His boots splash puddles and he kicks aside loose objects that have no business being in the way: chairs and barrels and sometimes even drunken men who've fallen where they stand.

If Keith's brother is truly here, Lance can only imagine what he is like.

Catching up, he asks, "Do you know where we're going?"

"Yes." Keith glances at him, a small smile on his lips. "I'm gettin' you something to eat."

"What?" He raises a sharp brow, "Shouldn't you be looking for-"

"Word will spread that i'm back. If he's here, he'll find me."

When they reach the tavern Keith is intent on getting to, he ushers Lance inside and keeps his gaze steady, as if challenging the men and women that quiet in their wake. They look to Lance with drunken, and sometimes very pointed, attention. Many of them let their eyes trail to his collar and away again but he doesn't care to know what they're thinking. He just takes a seat at a table and lets his feet rest, hating the boots that are laced against his ankles.

Keith walks away to gather their drinks and food and Lance is content to lean his chin on his palm, ignoring the rowdy crowd as they pick up volume. Glass shatters close by and shouts erupt but he's too busy watching Keith through the crowd, keeping a close eye on him as he leans across the counter to the tavern keeper.

From this distance, Lance can admire the boy without drawing attention. His hair has curled a bit at his shoulders and his jaw has a smattering of hair that he's yet to shave. Lance recalls their kiss and flushes like a damn virgin, his stomach fluttering from the ghostly heat upon his lips. When Keith turns back to the table, their gazes meet and Lance knows the boy is curious as to why he's suddenly so tense.

"Thank you." Lance clears his throat and takes a hearty gulp of the grog, licking his lips at the lingering taste of lemon.

Keith nods and sips at his rum, eyes raking over Lance's face. They're quiet for a long while, simply enjoying the rest. Someone strums a guitar over the clatter and Lance can't help but lean his head toward it, always excited to hear something so jovial. He eats a few bites of fish, not really enjoying how overly cooked it is but glad to have something in his belly nonetheless.

"Where are the others?" Lance eventually asks, leaning a bit so that he can be heard.

Keith shrugs, "Enjoying themselves. Getting drunk. Laying with whoever will accept them."

Lance smirks, "I'm not sure why I bothered to ask. I tend to forget that you pirates have such simple needs." He looks at Keith and tilts his head, "Though I am curious about one thing."

"Yeah?" Keith raises a brow, mouth twitching at Lance's playful tone. "What's that?"

Suddenly, Lance stands and holds out a hand, showing off a few dull azure scales beneath his skin. Keith's gaze follows the trail of them until he's looking up at Lance in wonder, eyes bright and curious.

"Would you like to dance?" Lance asks, knowing it's probably the last thing the pirate captain would really want to do.

But Keith only stares at him for a moment, as if debating the risks of showing a playful side in a place like this. Lance purses his lips and steps closer, until he can trail a finger along Keith's jaw. The touch makes the captain visibly gulp, finally making up his hesitant mind. He stands fast and they are flush chest to chest, Lance's breath getting a bit heavy.

They move further away from the brunt of the crowd until they're mostly shrouded by shadow. Lance doesn't mind, finding it rather romantic in the sense that it's as alone as they can be. He slides his hands around Keith's torso and looks at the man from beneath his lashes, asking for permission with no need for words. Keith meets his eye and steps even closer, until he's dipping his head to breathe in at the junction of Lance's neck and shoulder. His breath is warm against Lance's skin, sending a pleasant shiver down the length of his spine.

"I'd hardly call this dancing." Lance teases, voice hitching when Keith lets out a soft chuckle.

With no warning, he lifts one of Lance's hands and turns him into a spin. It isn't fast but it's fluid, giving Lance a small thrill. He snorts and quickly pulls Keith closer, a hand fisting in the shirt on his abdomen. Though the music is fast and the guitar is a bit out of tune, Lance finds that he doesn't really mind their lucid steps.

"You're just scared to admit that you're a shit dancer, aren't you?"

Keith hums, letting his hand rest on the small of Lance's back. "Perhaps. Or maybe I just enjoy holding you like this."

Smirking, Lance leans forward and rests his forehead on Keith's shoulder. He knows he's hiding his expression and he knows it's ridiculous, almost childlike in its innocence. But for the life of him, he just can't hold up the poker face he'd grown accustomed to using for the last few years. For Keith he is always laid bare, struck to the core.

"When we find your brother are you really intent on asking him to fight against Lotor?" Lance asks, disbelief underlying his words, trying to distract himself from the emotions rippling through him.

"Yes." Keith answers immediately. "And the entire Royal Fleet if I have to."

"I can hardly believe that." Lance admits.

Keith tenses, holding Lance just a tad tighter to him. "I made you a promise, Lance." The music grows louder and he speaks directly into Lance's ear, lips brushing the jewel in the lobe. He glances up, voice deep. "Besides, this fight has been a long time coming."

Then, with incredible strength, he turns Lance and shoves him against a wall. Lance stares wide-eyed as a sword embeds itself into the wood beside his head, mere inches from Keith's cheek and the previous place Lance stood. With a growl, Keith unsheathes his own sword and spins, the metal clashing in a harsh ring. It's an instant stalemate, both parties held on account of their strength. Lance bares his teeth and takes a step forward, knowing he won't mind getting his maw bloody.

But the woman only blinks at him, her attention diverted for a split second. The second is long enough for Keith to drive his sword through her gut and Lance waits for it, expecting it.

It never comes.

With a sigh, she lowers her blade and scowls, "Almost got you." Then, with a wistful smile, she knocks a fist into Keith's shoulder.

"Lai." Keith greets, sheathing his sword. "You look like shit."

Lance licks at his teeth and takes her in, from her short black hair to the sweep of her eyes, brown as murky water. She has a mole on the crest of her cheek and a jagged scar against her brow, the cut looking painful though it is obviously healed. All in all, Lance thinks she's actually quite pretty.

"Yer' one to talk." She roams her eyes over Keith, a fond expression falling on her face. "I heard you were walkin' around like you own the island. Had to see for myself if it was true." Then she glances at Lance again, brows furrowing. "Didn't expect you to have a pet, though."

At this, Lance bristles and once again bares his teeth. She looks to them but doesn't shy away, no doubt used to strange creatures washing up on these shores.

"This is Lance." Keith says, voice tense and guarded. There's a warning there too, laced dangerously as he steps aside. "And he's no pet."

Lai tilts her hat to Lance in apology, though there is mirth in her eye. "Sorry 'bout that. Didn't mean to offend."

"I'm sure." Lance says, finally speaking up. He stalks forward, close enough to smell the salty sweat on her skin. If she's uncomfortable with his proximity, she doesn't show it.

Instead she looks back to Keith, tilting her head in the direction of the swinging doors before turning away. She pushes through the crowd with rough shoves, uncaring about the comments that follow. Keith presses the tips of his fingers to Lance's knuckles, a soothing touch, before following.

And Lance, exasperated and very confused, hurries to keep up.

 

_******* _

 

Walking along the winding paths of the island gives Lance a better view of the open water and the buildings settled below. He spots endless trails of torchlight and sees the shadow of ships and their sails, lurking like beasts in the gentle underflow. Wind pushes at his back and he welcomes it, breathing it in, letting it soak into him until he can no longer smell the staunch.

Lai talks up ahead but he barely pays attention. Instead, he is drawn to the gathering rain clouds in the distance and the ginormous stone skull getting closer and closer, the skeleton of a huge ship looming like the open mouth of a cove. He fears they'll step onto the wood and fall through, all the way down to the core of the earth. But Keith walks with confidence and Lai doesn't hesitate to stomp, her boots making the place creak and groan. Lance winces and gathers himself closer to the pair, though he tries to keep that a secret. He'll be damned if he gives the woman anything to taunt him about.

The further they go into the ship, the more Lance hears other signs of life. Voices drift through the walls and light flickers beneath doors, shadows pacing.

"-so if you cut him open with yer' sword, I won't blame ya!" Lai is saying, a boisterous laugh escaping her.

Keith laughs too but Lance can tell he is full of nerves, or perhaps anticipation. They stop outside of a large door and Lai raps three times with her knuckles, speaking a word that Lance has never heard before. Shadows shift beneath the frame and Lance smells telltale signs of tobacco: sweet cherry and heavy musk. They wait a short moment before a lock turns, the door swinging open and bathing them in flickering golden light.

Immediately, Lance's eyes fall on the piles and piles of treasure littering the large room. Jewels glisten in colors of ruby and citrine, azure and indigo. Golden coins spill across the floor, chalices are filled to the brim with pearl necklaces and crystal rings. It all glitters and shines, almost magical compared to the rest of the city.

Lance pulls his attention away from the treasure but it's hard considering he hasn't seen such riches since his time beneath the waves. Ship wrecks provided him with equally beautiful human creations, though they never shined like this. Gulping, he looks to Keith in question.

But the man is no longer in front of him. Instead, he is crossing the room in quick strides, arms rising to latch around another. They slam into each other and hold tight and Lance can only watch, shifting to stay near the back of the room. A small prick of jealousy rises but he smothers it fast, seeing familiarity in the taller man's face.

They break apart and the man holds Keith's by his shoulders, looking at him with pride and, if Lance isn't mistaken, something feigning exasperation.

"Shiro." Keith says, voice strong but still full of emotion.

The man, Shiro, smiles and pulls him in for another hug, this one lingering just as long. No one speaks and Lance eventually drags his eyes away, giving them a semblance of privacy. Lai leans against the wall beside him, hand resting on the small barrel pistol on her hip.

"Sweet, ain't it?" She whispers, glancing at Lance.

He doesn't say anything. He just waits, sneaking glances at them as they talk in hushed voices. Others lounge and one woman makes a show of tossing a coin into the air, looking as if she has no other care in the world. Though Lance can see their glances, protective as they are.

Lance, on the other hand, studies Shiro. He's a large man and his right arm is missing, face covered in stubble. Dirt is swep across his cheek and it sits heaviest beneath a large scar on the bridge of his nose, a testament to a battle either won or lost. He looks like a warrior, like a person who has earned his way in the world.

Soon, his dark eyes are turning on Lance and Lance meets him head on, showing that he is not afraid. Even as the man stalks forward, Lance doesn't move an inch.

"My brother says you're part of his crew now." Shiro says, gaze flicking to the collar for only a moment. Lance is glad that he doesn't stare. That he doesn't make a show of wondering at the cursed gold. "He says you protect him."

"I-" Lance feels something twirl in his stomach, "I try. He likes to get into the dumbest, most dangerous situations."

At this, Shiro's stoic face breaks into a humored grin. He nods and holds his hand out for Lance to shake, not hesitating in the slightest. Though Lance has pointed teeth and ears that curve upward just a little higher than everyone else's, though he is obviously not human, Shiro doesn't act as if he is meant to be ogled at, either. Similar to Lai, he takes a normal gander and moves on.

Lance gladly takes his hand and their eyes hold, reflecting something similar in the depths. This man has been through a storm, a testing of his will and his strength. They are mirrored in survival and they both know it.

When Shiro pulls away, he moves to drag Keith beneath his arm, ruffling his hair and effectively lightening the mood.

"I'm glad someone can keep track of him." Shiro says, laughing as Keith struggles to break away. "If not for you, I fear he would be dead."

 

_******* _

 

As night continues to fall upon the island, the jovial reunion turns serious with the high tide. They sit around a table with their food spread out on chipped plates. Lance has already devoured two raw fish, ignoring the disgusted stares and whispers floating around him. He licks at the blood on his lips and leans back, instead listening to the discussion with rapt focus.

"You leave for five months and come back with a _war at your heels._ And to make things worse, you don't just have the Pirate King's son tracking you, now you've got the blasted Royal Fleet? The Queen's rabid dogs?" Lai spits, pointing a fork speared with crab at Keith's frowning face. "You expect us to fight so soon, hmm? Risk our lives just like that?"

"This is our chance." Keith drums his fingers on the table, "You've always talked about sliding your blade into the Pirate King's throat. Remember your bragging? Your promise to get revenge for what he did to your mother?"

Lai scowls, "I remember what he did. I was _there_ , you fuckin' piece of-"

"We all have our reasons for wanting him dead." Shiro interrupts, eyes dark as a storm. He's heard all sides and he debates them with care, though there is no denying the way he seems drawn to plans of revenge. "But we can't just break the code."

"Code?" Someone scoffs, "He broke it first. Many years ago, when he betrayed his own crew and let them hang."

Lance brings his rum to his lips, more so tasting it than actually drinking it. This conversation has been going on for hours and still they've made no leeway. He sighs and draws Shiro's attention for the umpteenth time.

"What do you say, Lance?" He finally asks, not sparing his brother another look.

Every eye is on Lance in an instant. He looks around, sliding his gaze from face to dirty face, wondering if any of these pirates even want to hear his opinion. But when his gaze falls to Keith, he finds that none of the others truly matter. Just him. Just the two of them, as it has been for months.

"I say," He places his cup on the table, fingers lingering on the rim. "that we make all of them _bleed_."

And Shiro, head tilted as he watches Lance above a flickering candle flame, begins to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi yeah Shiro is a badass pirate lord and I love my oc Lai. I hope you come to like her too!
> 
> thank you if you're still tagging along for this story, I seriously hope you're having fun/liking it! Shiro and Lance will be talking a ton in the upcoming chapter and I might??? give a Keith POV? should I?
> 
> anyway, thank you for reading and I'll see you next update!!


	8. Chapter 8

 

"Let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle, but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter."

_-Homer_

 

* * *

 

 

Lance wanders the shoreline alone, feet sinking into the soft, damp sand. Froth brushes his feet and he welcomes the feel of it, glad to be away from the constant noise of the pirate city. Down here, with only the skeletal remains of old ships sticking out of the water, he is mostly content. Wind ruffles his hair and he breathes it in deep, watching the rising sun slowly overtake the horizon.

He begins to hum a tune that hasn't crossed his lips in years. It's a yearning thing, something he would sing to himself on the back of great blue whales, staring at the rippling water and midnight sky above. Now, he looks to the ocean and wonders if maybe, somewhere very far away, his kin are singing too. He wonders if they feel him somehow, like a ripple.

Turning, Lance lowers himself until he's seated. The sand is cool beneath him and he leans back to let his fingers feel each grain. His song continues but it quiets down as he feels his eyes grow heavy, body yearning to just fall and bring welcome sleep. But he wants to see this sunrise and he wants to soak it in, pinpointing a new day in relative safety. As safe as he can be with hundreds of pirates roaming around, anyway.

Distantly, he can hear a shuffle of boots over rock. The trek to this little beach is a bit dangerous but it's doable and he knows only one other person who would be stubborn enough to try.

Keith takes a seat beside him but he doesn't say anything at all. He must have woken not too long ago because he yawns, just once, before settling in to the morning breeze. Lance watches from his peripheral as Keith leans a tad closer, as if drawn in by his song. And he supposes that could be so.

After a while, Lance stops singing altogether. He watches the sky bloom in brilliant gold and red, in pinks and purples and streaks of pretty blue. It bathes him in the light and he tilts his head up, until he can shut his eyes against the incoming warmth. As much as he loves his moon, the sun can sometimes sate a bone deep need within him.

"I always tried to see the sun." Lance eventually murmurs, drawing Keith's attention to him. "When I was under the waves. And when I first arrived on land."

Keith doesn't reply and for this, Lance is a bit grateful. There's a tug in his solar plexus, urging him to talk about things he hasn't before. For some reason, he doesn't think Keith will judge him for his past. Nor does he believe Keith will listen with the intent to hurt him later. It's a breath of fresh air, this strengthening trust.

"He was my friend." Lance shuts his eyes again, gulping at a heartache he thought he'd forgotten. "Or I thought he was. Maybe he was at first. I don't know."

"Lotor?"

Lance nods before continuing, "He was lost at sea when I found him. Dehydrated, delirious and on the verge of death. I could smell it on him, his blood was thick with it. I grew up fearing you humans, wanting nothing more than to slaughter you in return for the ruin you brought on us. But when I surfaced, he didn't look so bad. He wasn't scary. He was alone."

 

** _***_ **

 

_"Who are you?"_

Lance keeps his distance but he stares at the man anyway, blinking at the water on his lashes. Silver hair is limp and spilling from a braid, lips chapped and dry. For a moment, when he first surfaced to see the man laying on a piece of drift wood, he assumed he was already dead. He smelled the air and figured he would leave him for the gulls. But then the man had shifted, eyes opening to catch sight of Lance.

 _"You're dying."_ Lance had said, voice thick with the foreign words.

The man laughs, a huff of noise. _"So I am. And you're going to eat me."_

At this, Lance scowls. His nose scrunches and he swims closer, hand holding tight to his spear. It would be easy, he supposes, to drag the man beneath the waves. To sink his teeth into his flesh, to stain the water with his blood. But when he is close enough to touch the drift wood, the man doesn't move to attack. Other than the shuddering breath in his chest, he doesn't move at all.

And Lance doesn't know what comes over him then. He doesn't understand the way his stomach clenches and his tail shudders at the thought of the man dying here, alone and without protection. There is no huge ship at his back, no horde of humans to trap Lance and gut him like a shark. It is not a situation that requires merciless slaughter. Lance can't take him below, where his kin dwell, where only death awaits. But there is an island nearby, only a short swim away.

So, with a quick dip beneath the waves to make sure his pod isn't near, he takes hold of the wood and swims on.

 

** _***_ **

 

"I was a fool."

Keith looks a bit distraught, no doubt knowing or at least imagining where this story will go. But he doesn't know even the surface of it and though Lance wants nothing more than to continue, he fears he'll throw up his dinner into the sand if he tries.

"You weren't a fool." Keith clears his throat, making Lance finally look at him. He is disheveled from the wind and from a short sleep, hair wild about his face. "You're kind."

"Maybe once-"

"You are. I see it all the time." Keith glances at Lance's hand in the sand between them, at his brown fingers and the crests of his knuckles. "I see it when you sit with Ophelia. When you listen to Pidge as she rambles about her inventions and when you sing for the crew because you know they're exhausted. And always, when you smile at me."

Lance gulps and reaches a hand up, bringing sand with it. But Keith doesn't seem to care when the grit gets into his hair. He just allows Lance to trail fingers against his scalp, roaming all the way to the base of his neck.

"You flatter me, Captain." Lance smirks, enjoying the way a rosy flush travels up the length of Keith's neck.

Without thinking, Lance leans forward and places a soft kiss on his throat, feeling the heat beneath his lips. He stays there a moment, hoping Keith understands his intent. His thanks. When he pulls away and finds Keith smiling, he knows that he does.

 

 

**_ *** _ **

 

Shiro shows Lance the city as the days wear on, between meetings with other pirate lords and slow traveling news. They wander the markets, which are surprisingly full of families that seem to have no qualms about living with such dangerous men and women. If anything, they look as if they could swipe a sword and draw blood just as easily.

One evening, after leaving Keith to his own devices, they walk through the streets in momentary silence. Lance is weary of the pirate lord but he doesn't mind sticking close, knowing that if something were to happen, Keith would have everyone's heads.

"He used to love candy, you know." Shiro says randomly, taking Lance's attention away from a strange woman juggling sticks on fire. "Where we're from, far in the East, the candy is hot and sweet all at once."

Lance hums, unsure of what to say.

"We aren't related by blood." Shiro continues, glancing at Lance from the corner of his eye. "I found Keith when he was a child. He was...wild. Feral, almost. He'd seen too much, been through too much. More than someone his age should."

Lance gulps and follows Shiro to a small shop, where the floorboards creak but the ale smells fresh. He accepts a cup and sips slow, watching as Shiro leans back in his chair, regarding Lance with interest.

"I don't know much about his past." Lance finally says, "Only that you mean a lot to him. That he trusts you."

"I should hope so." Shiro smirks, but it's a weak thing. A bit sad. "We survived together for a long time, he and I. You see, I was sent by my own captain to recruit sailors to join the crew. At first, I didn't want to bring him on board. A pirate's life is no life for a child." Shiro winces, "But he was alone. He had been for a long time, didn't have any memory of where he came from, of where he was supposed to go. So, I took him. Protected him the best I could."

Listening intently, Lance aches when he imagine a smaller Keith, with haunted eyes and a hungry belly.

"The captain was a ghastly man. Mean, with an iron hand, liked to punish people by hanging them from the bow. For days they'd scream and then they'd go quiet, the sun burnin' them up. Sometimes they'd be cut down and already be dead. Sometimes they were alive, meant to be food for the sharks." Shiro meets Lance's eye, "It was Keith's idea to commit mutiny. It was his plan to kill the captain during a raging storm, when the thunder would conceal his screams."

"It worked." Lance doesn't need to ask, he already knows. Keith is smart enough, ruthless enough.

"'Course it worked." Shiro throws his head back and gulps down his drink, throat bobbing. When he looks to Lance again, he looks very serious. "But I'm protective of him, still. He can gut someone quicker than me, with less guilt about it, too."

"I may look like a killer," Lance licks at his sharp teeth, "but I don't want to hurt him."

"You don't want to or you _won't?"_

"We've made promises to each other." Is all Lance says, though soon a cursed heat begins to travel along his neck. "I keep my promises. And I've begun to... _care_ for your brother." 

At this, Shiro's body releases a bit of tension. "You must, if he's so desperate to go to war for you."

Lance grimaces, "He isn't going to war for me."

"Oh?" Shiro raises a brow, looking both amused and calculating. "How sure are you about that? Would you wager some riches on it?"

At this, Lance huffs. He looks away from Shiro, even taking a moment to debate taking him up on the offer. But when he looks back, he goes rigid at the sight of Shiro staring at his neck. At the collar and the scars, the way Lance's skin hasn't completely healed even with the help of Hunk's salve.

"So it's true?" Shiro sounds almost disgusted by the idea, by the mere possibility that Lance was held by Lotor like a common pet. "He put that thing on you?"

Lance nods, slow and careful. But Shiro is beginning to look less and less like a threat the more Lance watches his mannerisms. His face is still guarded but his fingers rise to his nose, to scratch at the scar that runs along the bridge. It's a habitual act, one that is familiar to Lance. And his shoulder twitches, just once, but still hard enough for Lance to take notice.

"Did he do that to you, too?"

Shiro's eyes darken, mouth turned down in a frown. "No." He looks to Lance's neck again, "His father did."

"Do you hate him for it?"

Shiro blinks, contemplative and angry and so muddled in memory that it takes him a long while to reply. But soon, after another round of ale, he does.

"Yes." He sighs, looking less like a dangerous pirate and more like a simple tired man, "And that's alright. Sometimes forgiveness is a good route to take. But sometimes, it's healing to never forgive either. It's up to you to decide which is best." He smirks then, "At least, that's what Lai says."

Lance smiles too, "I like the way she thinks."

"When are you gettin' that off?" Shiro nods toward the gold.

"Well." Lance shifts in his seat, the wood uneven and old. It smells like saltwater but staler, like it'd been soaked and left in the damp for much too long. "I'm not sure I can. A friend made something to help with the pain but I can still feel it sometimes. The dark magic, seeping into me."

"Dark magic?" Shiro sounds shocked.

"You can't mention this to Keith." Lance leans closer, blue eyes flaring. "He knows the gist of it but he can't know that...that, I-" Lance looks at his hands, at the subtle blue beneath his wrist. "I fear I'm dying, Shiro. Even if the pain is tempered, the poison rages. If I don't get this off, sooner or later it's going to burn me alive."

 

_******* _

 

That night, Lance eats his fish in relative silence. He watches the flicker of a candle flame and ignores the shouts and laughter around him, chewing slow as blood coats his tongue. There is a meeting to take place, another for what feels like too many, though he supposes they are necessary. This is a new crowd, full of new faces but Lance now knows that certain things never change. A converging of pirate lords takes time, considering many are hard to track down and many more can hardly stop from drinking themselves into an early grave.

A woman sits next to Lance and she's one of the few that hasn't drowned herself in rum. She simply waits, sipping her drink beneath the rim of her hat. It frames her forehead and aids in the coverage of her face by thick red hair, the likes of which stopped Lance in his tracks when he first saw it. A name fell upon his lips but minutes later, after staring after her as she took a seat, he could spot the differences. This woman is not Serina. She is a captain, a lord, a dangerous predator that stalks the open seas.

She interests him.

He slides his eyes to her as he takes another large bite, though he quickly looks away again when she shifts in his direction. From his peripheral he pretends, for a small moment, that she _is_ Serina. That the girl has journeyed with him all this way, that she's fought tooth and nail beside him, that she didn't die on that island. But when the girl speaks, his imagination is broken into shards.

"You think they're almost done?" She asks, nodding her head toward the mess of pirates still partaking in the party. "I got somewhere to be."

Lance shrugs and licks his lips, "I've learned to allow them their fun."

She lets out a quiet laugh, voice deep and gravelly. Sea-weathered. There is a smell to her, like brine and torch smoke, the brim of her hat decorated by sewn in coins and feathers, even a few bones. Her hair falls across her shoulders in shades of dark fire, some of it matted. But when she looks up at him, finally letting the shadows fall away, Lance is taken off guard by her smile. It's bright and pretty and though he's sure she'd kill any man here with no qualms, she doesn't look at Lance like she'd do the same to him.

"My name's Florona." She tilts her head, "I've heard rumors spreadin' about you. That you're from the depths, that you used to eat men."

Lance sees no point in lying. He flashes his teeth, watching as her eyes go a bit wide. "Only when they make me angry."

At this, she laughs. "You and me both, baby." She glances at the men and women surrounding them, assessing. "I hear your captain's looking for a fight."

"I am."

Behind them, Keith is framed by lantern light. He looks between the two of them, something almost playful in his gaze, before he steels himself and walks to the other side of the table. He takes a few gulps of his drink before setting the mug down hard, stopping a few people mid sentence. Florona hums and leans back in her chair, one leg thrown over the side. Her foot dangles, thick black boot settled loose on her calf. She watches Keith beneath the rim of her hat, though with a bit less warmth than she'd given Lance.

Shiro waits at the head of the table, watching everyone. His eyes slip from one pirate to another and Lance can see the way he's taking note of weapons; of threats he may need to quell should they try to attack Keith. Lance meets his eye, hoping he can convey his message: _i'll rip their throat out before they can touch him._

Keith delves into why they've been summoned, each given a token by messengers, the intent clear. Florona herself fiddles with a small blade, the handle carved and embedded with the symbol of the island.

"You want us to follow you." She says, after almost everyone else has spouted their own opinions. "One day we're fightin' each other tooth and nail and the next you want us to fly under the same flag-"

"No." Keith interrupts, "You fly beneath your own flag. But we unite, just this once, to take Zarkon down. We kill him, we disarm his son and we take back the seven seas."

A man grunts, "Pirate's haven't come together like this in a long time, boy. We're content sailin' the way we do."

"Yeah?" Keith stares him down, "You _like_ running like a bitch, tail tucked between your legs, when Zarkon comes your way? You like knowing he calls himself _King_ , uses cursed magic to keep control? That he sells our own to the royal fleets, where they take them on land and hang them like fish on a hook?"

The man sneers, "So long as I stay out of his way, he stays out of mine."

Shiro scoffs, drawing attention. He picks at the table with his knife, digging a deep groove.

He keeps his eyes on the cut but his voice is clear, strong with conviction. "That'll only work 'till the day he thinks your time is up." A chip of wood flies into the air, "Then you'll be strung up. No riches to your name, no legacy left behind. The sea will forget you. Zarkon will make sure everyone knows you were nothing more than a spineless eel. You'll be forgotten and lost to time."

This, Lance knows, is a hard blow to a pirate's ego. Other than the ocean and the raids, they love nothing more than having a name to be feared. They like stories to be said of them long after they die, where terror still flows by the phantom wake of their ship. The man looks green now, staring at Shiro before whipping his eyes back to Keith.

"You can't really believe we'll win." He looks around at the others, "All the ships in the world couldn't touch that devil."

Keith shrugs, "When have pirates ever denied a challenge? Think of the stories to be told about us. Think of the legends that will grow."

Lance smirks, enjoying the way Keith's voice takes on a new lively tilt, some distant accent leaking through. His smile draws Florona's attention. She eyes him, looking to the subtle glow and the tips of his ears before returning to Keith, who has made a point to _not_ look at Lance for the last hour. People begin throwing their hats on the table, a sign that they're willing to take up Keith's offer for war. When it Florona's turn, Keith raises a brow at her hesitance.

She licks at her teeth, regarding the captain with mirth. "I'm not sure I wanna follow you to my death, Keith." She tilts her head toward Lance, "But I like this one."

Her hat is tossed with little care, the coins jingling when it lands on the table.

"The odds.." Lai speaks up from her seat beside Shiro, ever the present first mate, protective of him like a hound. "The odds are real slim. We can go in there guns blazing and only win by the thin skin of our teeth. Is it really worth it?"

Keith glances at Lance, a look so fast he would have missed it if he hadn't been looking at the captain first. But before he can do so much as feel a flutter in his stomach, Keith is nodding. He looks strong and capable and determined, jaw set.

"It is."

Florona purses her lips, as though trying to keep a smile from her face.

Just then, when everyone is making to gather their hats and talk among themselves, the door to the room flies open. Swords are drawn, the ring of metal sharp. Lance stands fast, moving so that he can stand in front of the girl, the entire act instinctual.

But soon she's pushing past him anyway, out of breath but practically quivering with excitement.

"The odds _are_ low." She huffs, "But only if it's just us. Just pirates. Just _humans_."

Lance makes a small sound, a questioning trill in his throat. If anyone heard it, they don't comment.

Pidge holds up a paper, the edges frayed, lines of ink dark from the folded edges. "But I have a heading."

"A heading to _where_ , Pidge?" Shiro asks, slowly standing from his seat.

"To monsters in the deep." She looks to Lance, sly smile rising. "To creatures that can tear the king limb from fuckin' limb."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pidge is always up to something, usually saving the day and I love her for it. The journey that is about to take place is gonna be a long one and the dangers only rise from here. I hope you liked this chapter, thank you for reading and if you comment, thank you x100 <3


	9. Chapter 9

 

* * *

 

 

I know not all that may be coming, but be it what it will, I'll go to it laughing.

_-Herman Melville_

 

* * *

 

 

"We set sail tomorrow." Keith says in the dark.

Lance stands in front of a tall window, the panes dusty but the moonlight bright enough to bounce in reflection. He stares at the turbulent waves, heart still stuck in his throat. He should say something, anything, to give Keith an indication as to what he's thinking. But he's almost in shock, eyes scouring the horizon as if his people were going to swim to him at daybreak.

 _There's been sightings of Merfolk at Persedia's Trench._ Pidge had said, meeting Lance's eye on occasion. _I was selling my inventions, gathering tools for future projects and heard some old sailor talkin' about a run-in with a pod. He was the only survivor but he says they tortured his crew before they took them. That they asked strange questions, about a man with starlit hair and a boy with shark teeth. The more I heard, from different pirates all over the island, the more the stories seemed to match. So I'm guessin' we follow his trail, we find the Folk and we strike a bargain._

"It'll take weeks, maybe even months, to get to the trench." Keith is glancing between Lance and a map, flickering candlelight making the lines shift and trick the eye. "Long enough for anything to happen. And I was thinkin', we could always lead them back here instead of-"

Lance whips around, arms crossed, jaw ticking. "Instead of what?" He hisses, knowing he should remain calm. "Instead of me journeying with you? To finally see my own people?"

"This island is rough but it's safe." Keith winces, as if he knows the words will be met with disdain.

"I am not a damsel." Lance strides to the desk and knocks aside multiple objects until he can lean his palms on the wood. He gathers close until all Keith can see in that moment is him. "You've protected me this far, yes. But if we're going to the trench and my kin are there, if _any_ bottom dwelling creature is there, it is _you_ who will need _my_ protection."

Keith's eyes go hard, "I don't doubt your abilities." He slowly stands and the air is electric, fragile seconds away from snapping. "I never have."

"Then why-"

"It couldn't hurt for me to try." He interrupts, face flushed with sudden truthfulness. "You've become more important to me than I ever intended. The thought of you hurt... it makes me ache, Lance. It makes me feel close to panic, like I'm standing alone against a hurricane. It's as if a wall of water is towering over me and I know i'm bound to drown, that my heart is going to break."

Lance pushes away from the desk, frowning. A rise of emotion surges inside, casting him into deeper waters. He glances at Keith's hand and his scarred cheek, the slight curl of his hair on his temples and the swipe of his tongue against his bottom lip. He takes the pirate in completely, still so unused to such profound confessions. Keith walks around the desk and takes the few short steps he needs to get closer, until he's leaving himself open to Lance in apparent hopes for touch.

And, _Goddess_ , Lance wants to touch him.

So, with light feet, he closes the distance. They don't kiss, there is no sweltering touch of lips upon lips. Lance simply reaches for Keith and finds sanctuary at his fingertips, rough as they are. He slides his own fingers against Keith's palm and the inside of his wrist, beneath the cloth of his shirt to the crest of elbow, where the skin is most pale. Keith is impossibly still beneath Lance's hand.

"Are you afraid?" Lance asks, voice growing quiet the more his temper settles. "Are you scared that one day I'll snap? Or when we reach the trench, if we find my kin, that I'll turn on you? That i'll simply leave you, or kill you, never to remember your name?"

"No." Keith answers fast, "But if you did, I wouldn't blame you."

Lance finally lifts his eyes, confusion written across his face.

Keith continues, "You have every right to hate the likes of me." When Lance tries to reply, Keith quickly goes on, "But if you'd have me and if you'd let me, I'd follow you across every sea. Into any storm. I'd try to follow you anywhere."

"You can't mean it." Lance's whisper shakes.

For so long he had tried to see love in the eyes of a man lost to the dark. And for longer nights he'd given up on the idea that love could actually happen to him and be true. But looking at the captain now, at this human with sorrowful secrets and harsh regrets and the strongest convictions, he wonders if this love is a possibility. If it has blossomed and bloomed before his eyes, no matter his constant denial and fear of his own feelings.

"I do mean it." Keith brings a hand to Lance's cheek, thumb swiping soft against the skin, "My feelings for you are true. They've simply grown stronger every day. The thought of you has kept me awake and even when you aren't near me, I feel you beside me. And this journey we're about to take... it has no outcome that is clear to me. One wrong wind and we could sink ship. One mistake and we could be found, we could be in a fight with another crew and all could be lost."

Lance lets out a soft breath, "I have to go. They're my family."

"I have no memory of my own. I can't remember my father or my mother other than little bits and pieces that come to me in dreams, like the deep voice of a man in front of a fire. And sometimes, the singing of a woman, the flash of long black hair. If I could find them, I would without hesitation. So..." Keith nods. "You have to find yours. I understand."

"But I think," Lance continues, forcing the words out and finding solace in them; truth that warms him, "I think that with you I've found a family, too." His eyes prick with tears and he sucks in a small breath, "I don't know if I can choose."

"You don't have to." Keith promises and Lance lets out a breathy chuckle at the stubborn furrow of his brows.

And though it is a promise that cannot be kept, their lips touch gently anyway. It brings to Lance a deep calm, a slow roll of thunder in the distance traveling across the moonswept sea. From this height in the city the parties and the never ending voices are ghostly things, drifting faintly against the rustling palms. But Lance can only hear Keith's soft hum as he deepens the kiss, fingers holding tight to Lance's waist. He can only feel the heat between their chests, a kindling that shines bright.

When they pull away, there is fatigue in Lance's blinks. And this time, for the first time, when Keith turns to go, Lance finds more than enough strength to stop him.

"Would you like to stay?" He asks, quiet, almost unsure. For all of his fluctuating tempers and feisty lashing words, he feels something akin to nervousness overtake him.

Keith turns to look at him, eyes searching his face. "Stay?"

Lance just nods. He releases Keith's hand but doesn't break his gaze as he backs toward the bed, the blankets fresh from a day spent hanging in the sun. When he sits, he is humored to find Keith gulping.

"I won't bite." Lance snickers, patting the sheets beside him. "I'm tired and I want to sleep."

"Right." Keith nods and goes about unlacing his shirt, pulling it away in a flurry. It can get warm in these rooms even with the wind sometimes blowing through the window.

Lance rolls his eyes and lays back, sighing and stretching his long limbs. He turns to his side and faces the wall, the boards put together like patchwork from old ships. He can smell the salt water and the tobacco, though for once it isn't an entirely overwhelming sense. His blinks grow slow and he wonders if Keith will ever join him. But soon enough the bed dips and new warmth meets Lance's back, a small bit of distance kept between them. He huffs and reaches blindly, glad to find Keith's hand to bring around his abdomen.

"You _are_ a virgin, aren't you?" Lance mumbles, smirking when Keith laughs and fans warm breath across his neck.

Lance laces their fingers together, thinking that maybe if he presses hard enough, Keith can feel the beat of his heart. How fast it's fluttering, how strange and wondrous it is to feel it at all.

 

_******* _

 

**_Keith_ **

 

Waking to limbs intertwined, skin upon skin, makes Keith breathe a soft sigh of relief. He is so used to waking alone that this new occurance seems almost dreamlike. He opens his eyes to the ceiling, to the golden sunlight filtering in through the dust. Little specks drift above him, ebbing and flowing with the current of wind that occassionally sweeps the room. It takes him no time at all to feel the warmth of Lance beside him, though he's sleeping very, very close. One hand is still kept securely in Keith's own, their fingers laced upon his chest.

It all comes back to him, the way he'd thrown his fear and his love out for Lance to do with as he wished. He could have ripped Keith apart with his words and Keith wouldn't have regretted saying what he did; not one bit.

Now, he eases himself away from the sleeping man with careful, timid movements. The last thing he wants to do is wake him. On the contrary, once Keith is successfully standing and pulling his shirt back on, it's hard for him to do anything else but glance at Lance. His face is free of anger and agitation and sorrow but it's not withdrawn, either. Keith has noticed, over time, that Lance tends to make his face a blank slate until it is impossible for others to decipher what he's thinking. But now, as Keith reaches to brush a strand of hair away from his cheek, Lance looks peaceful. At ease, with a slight upward curve to his lips. It makes Keith smile.

Before he finds himself sliding back into bed, Keith laces his boots and shuts the door quietly behind him. When he turns to the hall, even he can admit he lets out a strange noise.

"You're finally up." Lai is leaning against the wall, running an old cloth along a short curved blade.

Keith frowns and starts to walk past her, ignoring the way she hurries her step to keep up.

"What do you want?" He asks.

Lai places the blade back in a sheathe on her hip, glancing at him. "This is some deep shit we're stirring up, y'know."

"Don't act like you aren't excited, Lai. Maybe it can be _you_ who kills Zarkon in the end."

They make their way through the city, all the way to the docks and the army of ships anchored there. All the while, Lai is quiet in contemplation. The woman is usually a spitfire, ready to jump into conflict and play childish tricks. But this morning weighs on her and Keith can see it, the way she follows him aboard the Draconis with a ticking jaw.

"You worry for him." Keith says as he checks his sails, the ropes and bindings. It'll take hours to count their weapons and load what they need in the levels below. "But Shiro is strong."

"I know that." Lai snaps, "But after Adam..he hasn't been right."

"Adam could still be alive." Keith winces at the thought of those that had been taken after they'd been boarded by one of Zarkon's more merciful ships."Pidge's brother, too. We thought Shiro was dead and look at him now, leading even more ships than before."

"I just know what it'll do to him if Adam isn't alive." Lai leans against the railing, crossing her arms. "It's been three years."

Keith sighs, "I know."

"My mom taught me how to slit a man's throat when I was four." Lai clears her throat and Keith glances at her, "She told me to keep myself safe because she couldn't always do it for me. I know what Zarkon's waters are like. I know how impossible it is to survive."

"But Shiro did. You did."

Lai scoffs, "At the cost of my mothers life. It took one rumor, one misstep, and her corpse hung on her own sails for weeks, until the skin dropped off and the bone got sunwashed. I couldn't even touch her, all I could do was watch the gulls peck at her before I was tossed overboard. Before the entire crew, my family, was given to the depths."

Keith turns to her completely, "What are you saying?"

"Fate's a funny thing and I gotta feeling your sword's gonna clash with a monster. And that monster just might win, Keith. You have to be prepared for that." She pushes away from the rail and scratches at her scalp, running lithe fingers through the dark strands of her hair. "If what happened to my mom happens to Shiro, or you, I'm gonna kick yer' ass. That's all."

And with that, she leaves. Keith watches her go, knowing her words carry more warning than she lets on. She'd been in the clutches of Zarkon before and it was Shiro who saved her, Shiro who gave her a new home and raised her like a sister. It's rare for Lai but it's there: bone-deep, _real_ fear.

Keith tries not to think about it for the rest of the day.

 

_******* _

 

 

Florona finds Lance on the shore, a long piece of driftwood trailing behind her in the sand. He notices her almost immediately and he doesn't move when she gets close, red hair glinting dark in the sun. Her hat is still pressed onto her head, shadowing her eyes and the jagged toothed, crooked smile. But he keeps from looking at her anyway, intent on staring at the horizon.

"You do that alot." She says, glancing at the water. "What do you see?"

"Home." Lance says, truthful. "Sometimes nothing."

Florona pokes at his leg with the stick, "You had a tail once? Was it slimy?"

Grimacing, Lance finally turns to look at her. She stares down at him, the sun creating a halo glow around her head.

"I've never met a fish before." She lowers herself and crosses her legs, smelling of musk and smoke. "At least, not one that could talk."

"Funny." Lance says.

She grins, lopsided and full of mirth. "How long you been sailing with your captain?"

Lance just shrugs, "A while."

"You trust him?"

"More than anyone else." The answer is quick, "More than you."

"I'm not askin' for your trust." Florona sighs, "But I tend to take in strays. Wanderers. People lookin' to get lost."

Lance glances at her, "I know where I'm going."

"The offer is on the table." Florona finally takes off her hat, long red locks spilling down her back. She reaches a hand toward the sea, sweeping her fingers across the expanse of the waves. "We go to the unknown waters. Where no kings or queens can find us, where we don't gotta run to save our fuckin' necks."

"Then why are you here?"

"Caught wind of you." She turns to him, eyes bright at the sight of blue beneath his brown skin. "Had to see ya' for myself. You're a beautiful one, for sure, just as the stories say. But you're just as deadly, aren't you?"

"On occasion."

She laughs, "Good."

Then, with no warning, she brings a knife to his neck and presses the blade deep. It's deep enough to hurt, to threaten his life.

In an instant, Lance's teeth grow sharp, his pupils slit; he is monstrous. He sees her expression morph to something bloodthirsty, unhinged and impressed.

"One wrong move and you'll tear into my face, won't ya'?" She asks, breathless. "You'll rip my eyes from the sockets. Eat my flesh-"

"Of course not." Lance leans closer, letting the knife nick him. It draws blood, a small bead traveling down the length of his neck. "You'd probably taste like horse shit."

At that, Florona throws her head back and lowers the knife. Her laugh is a cackle, wild as a storm. She sheathes the blade but doesn't try to stop him when he gets to his feet, probably guessing that he's seconds away from spilling her guts into the sand.

"I knew I liked you!" She places her hat back onto her head. "I'll be sticking close, savvy?"

"I don't need you to-"

She picks up her stick and stabs it into the sand. "You're my friend now, Lance. And I don't let my friends die."

 

_******* _

 

"What do you know about Florona?" Lance asks, teeth bloody from fresh fish.

Pidge digs into a plate of shrimp, the shells pink and steaming. Her hair is pushed back with strange circular glasses, straps looking heavy against her temples. Her hands are covered in oils, a large bandage wrapped around her forearm.

"She's dangerous and leads a crew of wild things." Pidge reaches for her drink and takes a swig, "Hasn't been seen in months 'till now. We all thought she was dead."

"Why?"

Pidge shrugs, "She disappears, sometimes for years, but always comes back more feral every time."

"Do you trust her?"

"No." Pidge scoffs, "I don't trust pirates."

" _You're_ a pirate." Lance counters.

Pidge just smiles, eating her shrimp with gusto. Lance wonders if they're good like that, though he isn't very inclined to try.

"So, your people." Pidge continues the conversation from earlier. They're taking their time with their final meal. They set sail within the hour, where most nights will be spent eating hard bread. "You said they'll try to kill us."

"They _will_ kill you." Lance says, "Unless I can stop them."

"There's a chance you can't?"

He shakes his head, "We grow thirsty for blood in the water. One drop and it's a full feeding, a haze. Like sharks in a frenzy."

"They'd kill you too?"

"No." His stomach rolls at the thought, "But they could injure me. The only way they won't pull the crew from the ship is if I swim to them first."

"But that means-"

"Keith will have to let me go." Lance licks at his lips, at the blood and juice. "He'll have to trust me. You all will."

Pidge leans back in her chair, "I know you won't let them hurt us."

But Lance can hear the smallest change in her tone. An unsure tilt, a hidden worry. He doesn't blame her for it. He supposes he would be nervous too if he were a human sailing into predator infested waters.

"But you said something else." Pidge takes a slim piece of wood and picks at her teeth, "Somethin' about creatures of the trench."

Lance hums, "Monsters. Legends. Whatever you call them, they prowl the waters and the deep. They're _always_ hungry."

"Never believed in monsters much myself. But I take your word for it." She meets his eye, quiet for a few seconds. But then she's speaking again, sounding serious. "If nothing else, I do trust you, Lance. Don't forget that."

The door to the tavern opens before Lance can reply, letting in a stream of afternoon light. It's bright and it nearly blinds the patrons, all of whom groan and gripe. Lance looks up, eyes sweeping Keith with new hunger. The captain stands tall beside Shiro, voices low as they scan the crowd. When they spot Pidge and Lance, Keith takes an eager step forward. It's obvious in the way he holds himself that he's desperate to return to sea, to feel the wind and the froth. Florona leans against the door, arms crossed as she watches Lai prowls like a feline, eyeing other sailors with warning.

Pidge finishes her drink and slams the stein down, "It's 'bout time they showed up." She grumbles.

Lance smirks and reaches for Keith the moment he's close, fingers settling on his wrist. He stands and leans in, brushing his nose along his throat, enjoying the heat. If Pidge or Shiro find the new public touches strange or unexpected, they say nothing. On the contrary, Shiro simply looks determined and bemused, as if laughter is sitting on his tongue. 

There's a common feeling traveling between all of them, one that is full of buzzing energy. They've been off of the water long enough. Now, it's time to sail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're finally gonna be on their way! Let's just hope they make it in once piece. (Hint: they won't.) (Another hint: they run into two familiar faces very, very soon.) 
> 
> Sorry if this chapter was boring, the next is going to be longer and full of twists and turns and action. 
> 
> :)
> 
> Thank you for the comments and kudos and support!!!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any mistakes!

 

* * *

 

 

Lance dreams of a cove. It is a glittering sight, the stone walls embedded with crystal and sunbeams. He swims languidly, staring at the man with silver hair, wondering if he should wake him. But after giving him a sponge filled with fresh water and a meaty fish to cook over a burning fire, the likes of which Lance stayed very far away from, the man had promptly fallen to his back and gone to sleep.

It wouldn’t be such a large deal if Lance wasn’t so curious. He was always prone to exploring abandoned ships and sunken cities, wondering at the world above. Many considered this the hopeless dreaming of a guppy, of a child who knew no better. But Lance would stare at human things and he would clean them, free them from their barnacles and algae and slime. He would treasure them.

Now he holds his spear close, no stranger to bloodying his teeth with human life. Still, his eyes are wide in a childlike wonder. The man breathes slow and deep, skin covered in dry blood and ash. He is gaunt, his clothes nothing more than rags, pale skin dry. It worries Lance even though it shouldn’t. He should just drag the man into the water, slaughter him near the seabed.

Instead, Lance rests his elbows on the ground and reaches one finger out to poke. The man’s skin is warmer than his own, with more hair to match. He lets his finger roam over and over, bemused by the feeling. He doesn’t realize the man is awake. He doesn’t yet notice that he is being watched. But when he finally looks to the man’s face, Lance nearly catapults himself back into the water.

“Don’t leave.” The man whispered, turning his hand to lay his palm open to the air. “I won’t hurt you.”

“You _can’t_ hurt me.” Lance hisses, voice thick and rolling even to his own ears. He is not used to speaking above the water. “Though you could try.”

“Believe me, I won’t.”

There is humor in the man’s voice, coinciding with caution. He winces at the sunlight filtering in through the opening of the cove, the sound of crashing waves echoing around them. Gulls fly close by but they don’t dare enter here, not when Lance takes up space. For the time being they are content to dive for fish in the shallows.

Lance tilts his head, eyes narrowed as he watches the man sit up. His tail sways languidly beneath the water and he doesn’t miss the way the man’s eyes follow the motion, the way he trails them all along Lance’s body. He studies Lance’s pointed ears and the diadem on his forehead, the scales running the length of his abdomen and waist and neck and jaw. When Lance breathes, the man seems entranced by the flutter of his gills.

“I hardly believe you’re real.” He says, voice quiet. “I think I must be crazed from the sun.”

Lance scowls, “I am real. As real as you, as real as the whales and dolphins and sharks.”

“You’re different that what I’ve dreamed.”

At this, Lance furrows his brows. “You dream of me?”

“Of your kind, at least.” The man coughs, voice catching on his dry throat. He instantly reaches for the sponge, fingers dripping with water as he wrings it into his mouth.

“What do you know of my kind?”

The man finishes drinking and looks to Lance again, staring like he’s found something to marvel. “Not much, I’m afraid. Only gathered stories from sea-drunk sailors and illustrations that are weathered and torn.”

“Nothing at all, then.”

The man barks a laugh and Lance feels his lip twitch, though he tries his best to keep from smiling. How threatening would he be then? His teeth would surely look like flower petals.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“You don’t speak like a pirate.” Lance swims a tad closer, though not enough to risk touch.

The man hesitates, looking as though he wishes to tell a terrible truth. And Lance can’t be certain how he’d react if the man _was_ a pirate. He isn’t sure if he’d swim away or if he’d draw his spear, throwing it with incredible force into his heart. 

“What is your name?” The man asks instead.

Lance speaks in his own tongue, the sound shrill enough to make the man wince. But soon there is a smile, bemused and interested.

And Lance, for all of his efforts not to, finds himself mirroring it. “Or you can call me Lance.”

The man thrusts out a hand and Lance bares his teeth, very close to instinctual attack. But the man just waits, expectant.

When it’s clear Lance won’t move, he explains. “It is a human custom to shake hands with strangers. That way we may become friends.”

“Give me your name first.”

The man breathes a laugh and lowers his hand. “Of course. My name is Lotor.”

Lance’s mother had always told him he was too young at heart. That he was too trusting, too full of hope, that one day it would be his ruin.

He forgets her words in that cove.

When his hand presses flat to Lotor’s, he forgets all the warnings he’s ever known.

 

* * *

 

There is smoke in the air. It rolls thick, hovering above the waves and weaving between the ships that have not yet sunk. Lance blinks against the sting of his eyes, shock leaving his body rigid and tense. He leans his palms against the railing of the helm, listening to the quiet slap of water, listening to the crackle of fires that have not yet gone out.

“What happened?” He whispers, a sense of dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

 Keith steers in silence, sweeping his eyes across the remains, spotting torn flags bearing crossbones and swords. Beside them, sailing in pace, Shiro stands at his wheel with the same amount of trepidation. He glances at Keith before turning to see the other ships following in their wake, no doubt all of them regretting their venture to this place.

 “We’ll prepare to fight.” Keith says, nodding at his second mate to take the wheel. He strides to the curved platform off of the helm and speaks to his crew with an unwavering voice, showing no sign of fear. “Whatever comes, we fight!”

Lance lifts his face toward the overcast sky and breathes in the rancid smell of death. Fear is a fire in his veins and he knows Keith can tell.

“You have your sword?”

“Of course.” Lance nods, touching the hilt at his hip.

“Good.” Keith draws his own, the sound ringing across the deck.

Weapons are taken into hand and all is quiet, much like the calm before the storm. He remembers his dream, his memory, and he sees white hair in the wind. He sees a man who made his choice and broke Lance's heart to pieces. It turns his stomach to rot and he pushes down a wave of nausea.

The waves churn and the boat rocks, gulls flying silent overhead. They wait to feast, probably wondering if these new ships will add to their meal. Lance watches Keith step to the side, staring down in search of sharks patrolling the water. All is quiet, all is calm, until it is not.

A deafening shriek fills the air, harsh enough to make Lance wince and send the rest of the crew into motion. They run to the sides of the ship, latch ropes tight and have their swords ready to kill. Lance turns to climb onto the tall wall of the helm, giving himself leverage to peer into the distance. What awaits leaves him gaping. Screams fill the air and it is a torrent of terror and pain, echoing all around. A ship tilts in the distance, weighed down by a great flat fin. Dark as night and slimy as seaweed, it uproots deck boards and rips apart the mast, sending hulking pieces into the sea.

“Hydra.” Lance whispers to himself, recognizing the shrill click that follows the destruction. He turns from his perch and shouts loud and clear, voice traveling across the expanse of the pirate fleet. _“Hydra!”_

Chaos ensues. The water crests inward as the creature swims beneath, scales slithering along the surface of the waves as it passes every ship. Lance jumps back to the helm and Keith grabs hold of him, eyes wild.

“Hydra’s are myth.” He sounds as if he’s on the verge of panic, though he tries to school his features. "They don't exist."

“Neither did sirens.” Lance counters, “Until you met one.”

Across the water, Shiro’s voice carries. He’s shouting and pointing toward the horizon, where the sunlight filters in silvery mist. Coves and cliffs line the surrounding area but they’re too far to reach, practically mirages compared to the reality they’ve found themselves in. Lance can’t even look at that distant salvation. All he can do is stare at the open sea ahead, at the water falling from serpentine necks rising toward the sky. There are three in total, twisting and turning, gargantuan in size. Sharp teeth glint, scales rippling as it turns a head to look at the ships below.

“We have to turn around.” Pidge says, gripping tight to her pistol. “We have to turn around _now!”_

“It must have swum from the deepest trench, woken from its sleep.” Lance cranes his neck, watching as water falls in rivers, feeling mist spray against his face. “Hydra feed once every ten years. I only saw a glimpse of one when I was very small and even then it was so far away-”

“You’ve seen one before?” Pidge sounds frantic, “You didn’t feel the need to warn us?!”

“I _did_ warn you.” Lance snaps, “I told you there were creatures that prowl these waters.”

“We’ve only just breached the coast of Ordalia. There are people living in villages near those coves, for fucks sake! We woulda’ heard of monsters if they traveled this close to civilization!”

Lance takes a deep, hearty breath. The power emanating from the Hydra sends shooting energy through him and he knows he’s begun to show it. He can feel his teeth sharpen and his phantom gills flutter, the ghost of a spear settled against his palm. The scales trapped beneath his skin glow, blood roaming hot in his veins. He turns to Keith, feeling as if he’s betrayed him in a dangerous way. In a way that could ultimately kill him though all Lance wanted to do was keep him safe. But he knows he has to try, that he has to do _something_.

“Keith-”

The moment Keith looks to him, fear and desperation on his face, the Hydra dives. It sends a surge that threatens to drown the ships completely. Crews across the fleet shout and hold on to what they can, fearing the beast racing toward them.

The first ship to go down is the furthest ahead, their cannons booming but bearing no true victory. A barrage slams into the neck and a head goes flying, landing in the ocean with an impressive splash. It screeches and Keith grits his teeth, palm rising to cover his ears as he rushes to the helm. Lance watches in horror as the creature’s head grows back, a fourth sprouting at the base. Blood turns the waves red, froth pink and sickly. Keith tries to turn the wheel, to send them away from the gore, but Lance knows it’s pointless.

The Hydra devours. It eats the sails, sends firing pistols into barrels of rum, revels in the explosions that follow. It’s a ghastly thing; a monstrous thing. But it comes from the sea, same as Lance, and because of that he figures there _must_ be a chance that he can stop this. He pushes through the crew and ignores Keith’s shout to come back; all he can do is get to the bow and climb, holding onto the ropes with a white knuckled grip.

The ship ahead sinks and the pirates drown, their lives given back to the water. Lance can do nothing but watch as the Hydra dives again, no doubt heading straight for him.

He prays that it is heading for him.

As the ship rocks, as water rolls and the smell of new death rises to meet his nose, he keeps his feet planted. He can hear Keith screaming for him, his voice desperate and breaking, but it’s all muffled: he is alone now, intent on finishing this. One head emerges and he watches it slowly rise, filmy eyes settled against the dark obsidian. Spikes trail along its neck, flesh hangs from razor teeth, steam rolls from slit nostrils. Still, Lance does not move.

He bares his face to the monster, blue eyes unblinking as it gazes back.

“You know my blood.” Lance says in the language of his people, words slithering against his tongue. It is not beautiful: it is a threat. “You know _me_. Never have I called upon you, but you will listen to me now.”

The Hydra’s head slides back and forth, long neck craned in an arch. Lance freezes as the others curl around the Draconis, fins flaring when it sniffs the air. As if it could sense that Lance is trapped, that he is kept within the confines of human magic, it rears back. 

"Your feast is over." Lance says, surprised that his voice does not shake. 

The Hydra blinks, golden eyes framed by deepest red. They stare at each other, take each other in completely and in the last moments, just when Lance thinks the beast will continue the rampage, they come to a silent understanding. 

The time it takes for it to sink back into the waves is tense. Everyone holds their breath, all hope thrown to their feet. Scales slip beneath the waves in a fluid motion and Lance watches it go, breath heavy and quick in his chest. He keeps a strong hold on the ropes, refusing to let go and step down until the creature is gone. He's shocked, full of disbelief that he's done it. He tries his best to wipe his features clean before he turns around, sound returning to him in slow increments.  

When he looks to the water, he searches for glowing eyes. But the Hydra does not rise again.

 

* * *

 

Keith doesn’t touch his food. He doesn’t drink his rum or light candles, nor does he look to the sea to keep watch of the ships that remain. All he does is sit, watching as Lance drinks from a golden chalice.

“My mother gave up many of her own years in return for aid from the immortal. She did it to save my life.” Lance says, licking his lips. “I was born with an illness in my heart. If not for the Goddess Vyelis, I would be dead.”

“You-” Keith clears his throat and shifts, “So, you _are_ a demigod, then.”

Lance smirks, “Not by birth.”

“You lied to me.”

“I hardly call it lying.” Lance rolls his eyes, “We barely knew each other. It was a small fib, at most.”

Keith gapes, “I wouldn’t call this a _small_ fib. Out there...it was like you didn’t hear me calling for you, like you were somewhere far away. And the Hydra, it _understood_ you.”

“Does it change anything?” Lance asks, raising his chin. 

He won’t admit it but he’s nervous that Keith will fear the wrath of Vyelis. That distance will grow between them. 

“No. It changes nothing.” Keith shakes his head, “But I don’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

Keith gets to his feet and leans against his desk, crossing his arms. “If you were blessed by your sea Goddess, why does she not help you now?”

"The Gods are selfish. They don’t like to worry for the likes of us.”

“But you’re practically her child.”

“As are you.” Lance steps closer, “Do you not love the sea? Do you not long for it when you are on land, is it not in your blood? Vyelis may not protect her children like a mother but she does give us full reign of her realm.”

Keith doesn’t look convinced.

Lance sighs, “Either way, Pidge was right when she mentioned how close the Hydra was to the coves. Usually they stay in the dark, in the depths.”

“Which means?”

“Which means something must be drawing them out.”

Keith rubs his temples and Lance reaches forward immediately, quick to brush the hair away from Keith’s cheek, fingers gentle as the strands settle behind his ear.

"What could that something be?” He asks, voice quiet. “You?”

Lance scoffs, “No.”

“Then what?”

“Opportunity?” Lance guesses, “The sea is going to be bathed in blood by the end of this war. And everything wants to feed.”

"Fuckin' wonderful.” Keith looks up at Lance, eyes roaming over his face. “But thank you, Lance. For saving us. If you haven't won every pirate over already, you sure as hell did today.”

Lance shrugs, cheeks growing warm. “I just figured it wasn’t a good day to die.”

Keith smirks and turns Lance until he's the one leaning on the desk. He presses a soft kiss to Lance’s forehead, lips lingering as he runs the pad of his thumb along the crest of his cheek. Lance's eyes flutter but he wants nothing more than to push them both toward the bed. He places his fingers on the skin beneath Keith’s shirt, feeling muscle and risen skin; a field of scars. Lips parted, he lets out a shaky breath as Keith trails his lips against his temple: across his eyelids, on the tip of his nose, the edge of his mouth.

A sudden knock freezes them both and Lance figures he must look ravaged, completely out of wits. Keith looks much the same, as if all he wishes to do is sweep forward and accept Lance’s kiss.

“Capn’!” Someone shouts, voice panicked.

Keith curses and stares at Lance for only a moment longer before pulling away, hurrying to grab his coat and sword. He swings the door open with a whoosh, eyeing the girl.

"What is it?” He asks and Lance can’t help but smirk, knowing he wants nothing more than to slam the door in the poor girl’s face.

"A ship is approachin’ off the bow. Headin’ straight for us, by the looks of it.”

"My brother-”

“Says ya' better get to the helm, sir.” The girl’s voice turns to a near whisper, “The ship bears the flag of the lion.”

“Just one ship?” Keith’s voice has changed. It’s hardened, cautious and dangerous.

"I can’t be sure.”

Keith nods, “Ready the sails and drop anchor.”

“But-”

“Do it.” He orders, leaving her to it before letting the door slip shut.

In the silence that follows, Lance can’t help but ask, “Who is it?”

Keith looks to Lance, somber with furrow of his brows. He walks to his desk and picks up one of his pistols before holding it out to Lance, making sure he takes it.

“ _Keith_.” Lance hisses, “Who is it?”

“The flag of the lion.” Keith repeats, “It's the Royal fuckin' Fleet.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof, 1. lance's past is sad 2. someone's about to make an appearance and i'm excited even though shit's gonna go down

**Author's Note:**

> This story is probably going to be huge, tbh. There will be lots (lots) of world building, lore, pasts / other things explained and danger around every corner. I hope you stick around to see it through! Comments and stuff are very appreciated.
> 
> My tumblr: [zoemech](https://zoemech.tumblr.com) send me a message, let's be friends :D
> 
> Playlist for this story (that is always being updated): [Breath of Life](https://open.spotify.com/user/a2j50wzh7lonlqxswc5ogd3hd/playlist/2md75Ii6GlZZlYP8Hh9By5?si=zB2fyXLXQNaRv6tQGEZrjA)


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